


The world is too full to talk about

by Teland



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Witchcraft, Anal Fingering, Dirty Talk, Dogboys and Doggirls, Established Relationship, F/M, Families of Choice, First Time, Hand Jobs, Kink Negotiation, LGBTQ Character of Color, M/M, Magic, Oral Sex, Polyamory, Pseudo-Incest, Romance, Rough Oral Sex, Sexual Fantasy, Telepathy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-10
Updated: 2016-11-10
Packaged: 2018-08-30 04:23:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 6
Words: 24,369
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8518348
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Teland/pseuds/Teland
Summary: "That's how you do it. That's how you start with — boys you don't know."  Treville pants — "I — yes. There are other things, but if we've made it into a position like this one —"  "But you do know me."  "Porthos —"  "You —" Porthos shakes his head. "There's nothing wrong with your *technique*, Treville."  "Thank you?"  "But if you're going to fuck your *son*, then I'd think you wouldn't do it just any old way."





	1. Well, all right then.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [naughtypixie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/naughtypixie/gifts).



> Disclaimers: Not mine, except for what is.
> 
> Spoilers/Timeline: Vague, AU-ized mentions of S2 storylines, takes place pre-series. 
> 
> Author's Note: I asked Pixie to give me a Te-soothing bunny, and oh, did she ever provide. That's probably another warning. 
> 
> Acknowledgments: Much love to Pixie, Melly, Spice, and, of course, my Jack, for audiencing, encouragement, helpful suggestions, hand-holding, and just being wonderful to me.

"I don't think you're drinking enough, Fearless." 

"Non, non, you are like one of these — these tender young reformers, dry and sober and *moral*," Reynard says, and nods judiciously. 

Treville looks at his brothers. 

From over the rim of his — empty — tumbler of wine. 

It's not his first. 

It's not his *fifth*. 

It — he was late. 

He was, in fact, sitting up with Laurent in his office until much too late helping him figure out what to do about the great, gaping hole in their long-gunners now that so many of them are being taken to shore up regiments in the regular Army. 

And this is how Kitos and Reynard have decided to make him pay for it. 

"I..." 

Kitos lowers his chin. 

Reynard raises an eyebrow. 

"Fine, but I want brandy," Treville says, and calls for a bottle — *starts* to call for a bottle, that is, because there's a commotion at the front door involving the innkeeper and at least two of the maids. 

This could be... 

But he *and* his brothers are already up and moving — 

And there's — barking?

Familiar barking? 

Familiar *barking*? What — but they're there, and easing Lisette and Selene out of the way so they can get to Dumont, who has a bloody big *broom* in his hands — 

Which. 

Well, all right, that's a bloody big dog. 

Nice-*looking* dog, if a bit more broad in the chest and square in the muzzle than the dog who lives in Treville, and — not familiar. 

Not...

Treville isn't sure. The dog is still a puppy, going by the look of those paws, and Treville just hasn't seen him anywhere before — though he looks like he *could* take down a smallish bear if he wanted to, with or without help. 

And...

He's paying absolutely no attention to Dumont, and *lots* of attention to Treville. 

He — 

Treville drops into a crouch — 

"Oh — be *careful*, sir —" 

Treville holds up a hand. "What's all this then, boy? Dumont's not a bad sort, you don't want to give him a bad time —" 

The dog yips — and wags. 

And the dog Treville *is* — not just the dog who lives in him — wants him to know that *this* dog... wants to talk to him. 

(Ah, oui, meneur?) 

Yes, I — 

(We'll take care of it,) Kitos says, through the bond they all share, through the blood they all share, and tosses the dog a meat pie before turning to Dumont —

Reynard does the same — 

And, after a moment, the broom is out of their way, and the dog is licking his face — he'd made short work of the pie — and yipping and sniffing him thoroughly all at once — 

"Oh, is that so, boy? You were looking for me?" 

The dog yips twice and goes back to licking — 

And Treville grabs him by his relatively ungenerous ruff and shakes him a little, smelling his happiness, his pleasure and *satisfaction*. "That's right, boy, that's just right. But... uh..." 

The dog keeps licking. 

Treville laughs. "You could tell me *why* you were looking for me...?" And he lets his dog ask the question, too, since he's reasonably sure that *this* dog isn't magical, and there'll be some need to translate the more difficult concepts — 

But there's no hesitation before the dog dances back enough to meet his eyes just like someone taught him how to talk to men. He rumbles and yips, yips again, looks into Treville *hard*, and... 

And all that's *incredibly* clear — and simple: 'Because you're the one who was missing.' 

It's just also a gigantic mystery. 

It — 

Well. 

They're not going to figure this out in a doorway. Treville licks the dog's nose and stands. 

"All set, Fearless?"

"I've got a dog now," Treville says, and wipes some of the shed fur off his face. He doesn't bother doing a thing about the doggy saliva. 

"Bien. Let us all drink to celebrate!" And Reynard takes Dumont's broom, snaps it in two, and then hands him a few sous.

And the dog trots in at Treville's heels, calm and well-behaved as you please. 

Lisette brings them brandy. 

Selene brings them more meat pies. 

The dog eats them out of his hand.

"You know, I have to leave fairly often." 

The dog looks at him. 

Treville sips his brandy. "Well, I'm a soldier. A Musketeer. We get sent all over the place on missions. I won't be able to take you with me." 

The dog growls. 

"I know, I know — " 

The dog growls more — 

"I don't think you can run as fast as a horse —"

The dog stands up and dances on his paws. 

"Well, of course you can track me, but —" Treville stops. Just — stops. 

*Looks* at the dog. 

Looks for *magic*, because the dog *can* understand everything he's saying — 

Whether or *not* Treville is making an effort —

Treville narrows his eyes — 

The dog stops dancing and cocks his head to the side — 

"No, I..." But what can he say? 'Why do you act like a magical dog when you don't *feel* like one?' 

"Meneur?"

"I — there's a mystery here, Reynard. Maybe a few." 

Kitos booms a laugh. "Mayhap that dog's your familiar, Fearless," he says, and it's almost a quiet voice. 

In a way. 

For him. 

Treville smiles ruefully. "I can't smell magic on him, lads. Not any. Even though, given how well he can track me and *understand* me —" 

"He should be as magical as *you* are?" And Reynard raises *both* eyebrows.

Kitos looks at him curiously. 

"I —" Treville shakes his head, not really meaning no, and turns back to the dog, who... didn't follow all of that. Treville can tell. "You can't understand everything my brothers say?" 

The dog yips — 

Pauses — 

And growls with obvious frustration. 

"You can understand *most* of it, but only if you focus very hard, I see. They're still clearer than most humans." 

The dog wags almost furiously. 

"I hear you. Most humans don't make half as much sense as a good dog," Treville says, and shakes the dog's ruff. 

The dog sits and leans against his leg immediately. 

Treville drinks with his left hand. 

Kitos pours him another. 

Treville drinks more. 

Reynard slips the dog another pie. 

They'll worry about mysteries later.


	2. Good Day Sunshine

Treville wakes up with a bloody great headache and a sour stomach that he can *mostly* will away with the help of the little wooden jackal he'd made a point of curling in his palm before passing out —

Treville *truly* wakes up once he's neck-deep in a basin of tepid water — 

But then, he doesn't *actually* wake up until the bloody great dog he abruptly remembers adopting starts licking his knees. 

Well, then. 

He probably deserves the pain of snorting that water up his nose for *something*. 

He stands straight, shakes — 

The *dog* shakes — 

And they grin at each other. 

"What's your name, mm?" 

The dog whuffs *extensively* for a while — and that.

"Your dam named you something you don't know how to explain to me?" 

The dog wags slowly.

"That wasn't quite it, but you don't know how to correct me?" 

The dog yips. 

Treville nods slowly. "Maybe... she named you something *important* that I *could* find out — that I could *help* you explain to me?" 

The dog gives him a long and almost hungry look for that... but Treville doesn't think it has anything to do with his name. It...

Treville drops into a crouch and cups the dog's huge head. "Tell me all about it, boy. I want to know." 

Another frustrated growl. 

"You don't know how? It's all right. You can talk around it, and I can —" 

The dog breaks Treville's hold and licks his face a little vigorously. 

"I can take you *outside*, is what I can do." 

The dog grins. 

And once *that* business is taken care of, and Treville's gotten them both breakfast from the kitchen, and the dog's been cooed over by the day-staff — 

Who adore the dog, because he's sweet and gentle and *polite* to absolutely everyone who's nice to him, and even more gentle with the ones who are intimidated —

Well, they can start on their way to the garrison. 

Éventreur is, perhaps thankfully, somewhat more calm than he was when Treville first got him, and doesn't try to trample the dog even though he insists on staying close on Paris's busy streets. 

Possibly it was that look the dog and Éventreur shared when Treville was riding him out of the hostler. 

Certainly, Éventreur is being kinder to *him* than usual on this ride, too, and — 

And it would make sense. 

*If* the dog were — somehow — Treville's familiar. 

If the dog had been *sent* to him by some magical force. 

If the *dog* had been augmented like *he* had been — or. He doesn't know. He doesn't know why he can't *feel* the dog. He doesn't know why he can't just point to the dog's personal *force* and say 'there he is'. 

He doesn't know. 

Everything *else* makes sense for a familiar, though, and — maybe that's what he should go with?

He'd always said that he wouldn't *get* a familiar, just as if getting one was a *choice* a witch could make. He's learned better since those early declarations.

He's not altogether sure if the All-Mother plays a role in choosing familiars as some say, but he knows the *animals* play *infinitely* more of a role in it than the witches do. 

If this dog decided Treville was the missing piece... well, then, he was. And now he's not missing anymore, and the dog will do his level best to be a *partner* to him. 

A — more than that. Deeper than that. 

He has a lot to learn. 

He *will* learn. 

Because that's the other thing about familiars — once they choose you, you're *chosen*. Treville's heard talk of some witches trying to get out of it, but he hasn't heard talk of them *succeeding* — as opposed to talk of them making life difficult for their familiars and themselves. 

He doesn't have to be an idiot all the time. 

He turns to give the dog a look — 

The dog looks up at him and grins. 

Treville tips his hat. But we have to get you a name I can call you, he tries, testing at a bond he can't *feel*. 

The dog whuffs at him. 

"You... want me to pick?" And Treville's heart is pounding because he wasn't expecting the dog to *hear* that —

Not even after all of that — 

No, no, he can cope. "I mean — are you sure?" 

The dog wags as he trots beside Éventreur. 

"It feels right? I." Treville swallows hard. "I'm honoured. I'm — and you're. I'll come up with a good name. A *right* name." 

The dog yips. 

"You trust me?" Treville laughs. "Do you *see* what I named Éventreur?" 

The dog groans. 

Éventreur lifts his head and steps proud and lively. He may not have disemboweled anyone *recently*, but — 

The dog *barks* —

"I *know* you're a friendly dog —" 

The dog barks *again* — 

"You're — you're much better-behaved than anyone I know except *maybe* for Laurent, and he's — oh." 

The dog yips. 

"How um. Do you like the name Prince?"

And the dog — shivers. 

"If you don't — I mean, I can keep trying —" 

The dog whuffs — 

"It's just that it feels right, feels just as right as you do, my big, sweet prince of a dog —" 

The dog yips and yips and wags — 

"Oh. Yeah?"

The wagging is *vigorous*. 

Treville grins. "Prince it is, then. Today is tripe day at the garrison — I'll get you a *big* bowl to celebrate." 

The — *Prince* dances a little. 

Treville watches him do it. Just — watches.


	3. Mmmm, tripe.

As a lieutenant, there are any number of supervisory duties Treville has to do before he can settle into training for the day. It's the same for Kitos and Reynard, and, unfortunately, most of the time they have to perform those duties separately just to make sure they all get done with enough time to spare *for* them to train. 

Still, it's a good opportunity to give Prince the tour, and introduce him to the men and boys. 

He gets a certain odd wistful air sometimes while they're helping the recruits train, but he doesn't seem especially capable of talking about why. 

More mysteries. 

By the time Treville's done being a lieutenant, it's time for their celebratory tripe, and Treville snags two big bowls and heads to their usual table in the mess. Kitos is already there, but Reynard is —

"Fox-face is helping his clutch of recruits with their knife-work today," Kitos says, and digs in. 

Treville sets the bowl down. "We won't see him until sundown." 

"You got that right." 

Prince makes several ecstatically disgusting noises while eating his tripe. It's the most heartening thing Treville has heard — and seen — in ages. 

Kitos hums. "So I heard you named him." 

"That I did." 

"I heard you named him something not *horrible*." 

"Well, I..." 

Kitos raises his bushy eyebrows pointedly. 

Prince keeps eating. Every time a bit of tripe goes flying, he pauses to retrieve it, licking his chops in something like a fugue of pure animal enjoyment and — 

Treville sighs. "He's a very good dog."

Kitos raises his eyebrows higher. 

"Well, he *is*." 

"*Is* he your familiar?" 

"I think that must be it —" 

"But you don't know for certain?" And Kitos frowns. 

Treville smiles ruefully. "I really don't, brother. I can't *feel* him. I can't feel a *bond* to him. I always thought — knew — that if I had a familiar, I would." 

Kitos nods judiciously. "Maybe there's something you have to do to *set* the bond, like?"

"I — hunh." And Treville looks to Prince, who is holding the bowl still with one paw and licking it clean — 

Licking it *immaculate* — 

Such a good dog — "I'll ask him later." 

Kitos laughs hard. "After his — and your — second bowl?" 

"Damned right," Treville says, and starts catching up to his boy.

Kitos stands — *he's* done with his first bowl. "I'll get us seconds, you both stay put." 

Prince wags and brings Kitos his bowl.

"Oh, is that so, boy? Well, thank you *very* much." 

Prince wags more and responds very well to having his ears scratched by *Kitos's* massive paws. 

Treville eats with one hand and pets with the other.

Prince leans against his leg and —

And it feels good. 

It feels *right*, and warm, and all those other things that a witch is supposed to feel when they touch their familiar. More. 

*More*. 

Unless the descriptions weren't that good?

Treville looks round the mess — there is, as usual, a space opened up around their table just in case. Good enough. "Prince..."

Prince looks up — and licks Treville's fingers. 

Treville grins. "Good boy." 

Prince grins back. 

"What do *you* think about being my familiar?"

Prince cocks his head to the side. 

"No? You're not sure what it means?" 

He whuffs. 

"You know a *little* about it, but not that much." 

Prince wags. 

Treville nods thoughtfully. 

Prince croons a question. 

"No, I — I would think you'd know more than I would." 

Prince whuffs agreement. 

"I think —" 

"Having it out without me, then?" And Kitos is *right* there with their seconds — 

He can always move so damned *silently* when he wants to — 

Even when he's heavily armed and his hands are *full* — though he sets the bowls down right away. 

Prince immediately sets to, making even *more* disgusting noises somehow — 

It's just so — 

So *warming* — 

"Fearless, if I'd known you'd do this well with a dog of your own —" 

"I *am* a dog of my own —" 

"I always did think your dog was a bit too serious, though. Maybe lonely?" 

"He has *you* berks to play with —" 

"But we're not *dogs*. Ask *him* how he feels about Prince here." 

"I —" But being belligerent for the sake of belligerence isn't the right course here. He opens himself to his dog — 

Fights back the urge to shift in the middle of the *mess* — 

Promises a night to run *soon* —

And asks. 

His dog has questions of his own. Why can't they feel him, except to enjoy having him close? 

Why does he seem like kin, when everything about him is practically a blank?

Why does it seem like there's something wrong? 

Treville blinks. But — what could be wrong? 

His dog doesn't know. 

His dog wants them to find *out*. 

They have to *keep* Prince —

His dog agrees — he wants to run! He wants to hunt and play! He wants to see if Prince-dog enjoys Kitos's leather ball as much as he does! But there are questions. 

Treville nods internally, thanks his dog, and gently pushes him back. When he feels more or less like one dog again, he takes a deep breath — and finds Kitos and Prince watching him curiously. 

Kitos isn't a surprise — he's had plenty of time to get used to what it looks like when Treville is talking to his dog — but Prince...

"You felt me talking to my dog?"

Prince whuffs and wags, tripe only half-eaten. That's no good. 

"Finish eating," Treville says, and gives that massive dark head a stroke. "We'll all talk when we're done." 

Prince rumbles and buries his muzzle in his bowl — 

Kitos gives him something of a *look* — but eats, too. 

And Treville eats and tries to think about what could possibly be wrong enough to upset his dog — but not so wrong as to make him want to push Prince away. Something... minor? Something small and... he doesn't know. This is what he has brothers for.

He eats, and he wonders if he should be dragging Reynard away from his undoubtedly exhausted and terrified recruits — no, they need every bit of his teaching. 

Laurent will save them when it's time to give them a break. 

And — that's an idea. 

Treville finishes off his second bowl, has a deep swallow of watered wine —

And Kitos and Prince are looking at him again. Expectantly. 

As usual, when he gets that kind of look, he wants to have something fun on his mind, something *filthy*, but — 

And Prince is laughing at him.

"Oh, caught that, did you?" 

Prince laughs more.

Kitos looks back and forth between them with a little smile on his face. "*What* did he catch, Fearless?" 

"He caught me being rueful about not having a more fun plan on my mind than 'go see Laurent'." 

"Oh, I *see*. We were looking to you to lead, and you were feeling chagrinned about not being a bloody *ringleader*." 

"That's *right*." 

"You're forgiven, Fearless." 

"*Thank* you —" 

"Provisionally." 

Treville snorts and stands, retrieving his and Prince's bowls. "Let's *go*." 

"Right you are." 

They make an interesting column, heading up the stairs to Laurent's office: Kitos massively in the lead, Treville dwarfed in his shadow, and Prince trotting dutifully behind. 

They'd gotten the chance to swing past Reynard and his recruits — no one bleeding too badly, only a few people actually glassy-eyed with fatigue, everything going well as these things go — and Prince had paused to watch Reynard demonstrate technique, just as if he'd be using a dagger on someone sometime soon. 

He wouldn't budge from his vantage point, though, and it *is* always good to watch Reynard using all that deadly knowledge to turn their *recruits* into people as terrifying as he is. 

Well. Inasmuch as that's possible. 

And now they're here — 

"Come in, all of you," Laurent calls, before Kitos is halfway down the walk — 

Because Laurent can bloody *do* that even *when* Kitos is being poacher-silent — 

Kitos is shaking his head and grinning — 

And, when they do get into the office, Laurent is standing behind the desk and looking... a little too tired. 

*He* hadn't left when Treville had last night. Fuck only knows how late he'd stayed trying to figure out what to do about their long-gunners. 

Still, he *does* look pleased — "I see you've brought me a new recruit." 

Kitos booms a laugh. "That's right, sir! Fearless already tried to convince him to stay home for missions, but the pup's not having it!" 

Prince stands straight and tall between them, head up and eyes bright. 

Treville wants to *pet* him, but somehow he doesn't think he'd appreciate it right then. You don't fuss over a recruit when he's meeting his Captain for the first time. You don't — 

And Laurent hums and moves round in front of the desk, crouching down from his impressive height to meet Prince on his level, and offering his hand. 

Prince sniffs it thoroughly — and licks Laurent's fingers almost *decorously*. 

"Thank you for that. I can feel — and hear — that your name is Prince. I find it impressive that you convinced Treville away from his usual naming conventions..." 

Treville ducks his head — 

Prince grins and whuffs. 

Laurent raises an eyebrow and nods. "I suppose simply explaining to him that you were not like his usual companion animal *would* be enough." 

Another whuff — 

"He *is* a very intelligent — hm. Are you his familiar?"

Prince croons. 

Laurent blinks. "You're not certain?"

"Neither of us are, brother," Treville says, and smiles ruefully. "Also, he understands you better than he understands Kitos and Reynard —" 

"Soldiers should always understand their commanding officers, and be understood by them," Laurent says easily, and stands after stroking over Prince's head. "But tell me more about not being certain." 

"I — what —" 

Prince wags *confusedly* — 

Kitos laughs hard — "Catch up, brothers! Laurent is on the case!" 

Laurent's mouth quirks in a *tiny* smile —

His moustache almost *hides* it — 

But nothing can hide the pleasure in his scent, or the way he's about a thousand times more *relaxed* than he was when they'd walked in this office a few minutes ago. 

It's always better to give Laurent something to do other than be The Captain. 

It's always better to *go* to him — 

And Prince looks to him for that, focused and curious — but before Treville can say anything, Prince wags and sits down, satisfied with the answers he'd given when he wasn't *thinking*. 

Which — 

That's a good place to start. "He can feel me, hear me — *sense* me. He can track me for long distances." 

Laurent nods. "More?" 

"More. I feel *better* when he's right there. I feel *right* when he's there, when he's happy, when he's satisfied. I slept better last night than I had in ages, even though I had a skinful, and it *wasn't* the magic." 

"You're quite certain about that?" 

"I am. I needed the magic to deal with my hangover — it wasn't doing anything while I was sleeping." 

Laurent nods. "Go on." 

"I can understand him as well as I can understand any dog, but it *means* more. *Emotionally* it means more. It's *important* that we understand each other. It's *right*." 

Prince whuffs agreement. 

"And all of this somehow does *not* add up to him being your familiar?"

"I don't know, brother — and neither does *he*. And that's just one of the problems. It would be one thing if *I* didn't know, at this point — it's happened with weaker witches, and I was *born* a weaker witch — but *he* ought to know." 

Prince whuffs again, and rumbles. 

Laurent raises an eyebrow. "Yes, I imagine you would know something so fundamentally important about a man as superior as Treville." 

Treville blinks — "I — hey —" 

Kitos booms a laugh — "Don't fight it, Fearless. You have a *dog*." 

"Right, but —" 

Prince growls at him. 

"*Hey* —" 

Prince lowers his head — 

Kitos laughs so hard his belly quakes — 

Laurent hums — 

"Look, you hardly even *know* me, Prince —" 

Prince barks at him. Affrontedly. 

Which. 

He has a point. 

Treville nods to Prince, who settles right down, and then turns back to Laurent. "He can feel me better than I can feel him." 

"I had always assumed that that was the way of things with familiars...?" 

"It *is*, but..." Treville shakes his head. "I can't feel him, at all. When I look for magic being expended around me, I can't feel *anything*. When I look for magical *beings* around me, I can't feel anything. If I didn't have my other senses... well, no, there are all the *other* things I feel when Prince is around. It's not like he's some random dog." 

"No, that much is clear. And you're both quite positive that you *should* be feeling more than you are? That you *would* be feeling more than you are if you were his familiar?" And Laurent turns to Prince. 

Prince whuffs and wags — and then slows his wag down and croons. 

"You're *not* certain...?" 

"He says he hasn't studied this as much as he could have, brother," Treville says. 

"When would he have had the *chance*?" And Kitos turns to Prince, too. "You listen to me, mate — the dog who lives inside Fearless is *entirely* too serious-minded —" 

"Kitos —" 

"Don't you start, Laurent, that dog is giving himself grey whiskers! Before his time!" 

"I — hm. But —" 

"No!" And Kitos turns back to Prince. "You have to give yourself time to play, mate, and to roll around like an arsehole. We'll help."

Prince whuffs noncommittally. 

"What? Of course there's bloody work to do! And we'll do it! But —" 

"Recreation is an important *part* of the work we do, Prince," Laurent says, and smiles warmly, leaning back against his desk. "When we don't take the time to rest our minds and bodies — to take our *ease* in whatever ways best suit us — we do not perform our duties well."

Prince croons. 

"It's entirely true. And a lesson I must be taught, and re-taught, and re-taught again... countless times." 

Kitos looks like he wants to coo at Laurent. 

Treville just sits next to him on the desk and kisses his cheek. "We're here for you, brother." 

"Mm. And I for you. Always," Laurent says, and turns to kiss Treville's cheek just a little lingeringly. 

Treville shivers — 

It's been exactly long *enough* — 

Too many of their late nights have been spent *working*, and everyone knows it — 

Laurent makes a soft sound. "Little brother." 

"Do I need to take Prince and leave you two alone?" 

Prince makes another affronted sound — 

"Now, now, mate, you've got to let your witch have some privacy from time to time — or. Wait." 

They all pause and think about that, Prince's head cocked to the side. 

After a moment, Laurent turns to Treville with an eyebrow up. 

"I... have no idea whether or not familiars leave the room when their witches are making love." 

Kitos looks at him. 

Laurent *looks* at him. 

And Prince *barks* at him. 

Treville scratches in front of his ear. "I strongly suspect they stay right there and supervise, though." 

Kitos and Laurent nod. Prince wags. 

Reynard — Treville would recognize the pace of his walk drunk, drugged, and with *several* head injuries — starts up the walk — 

"Come in," Laurent calls. 

Reynard slips in, closes the door behind him, takes in the room like he *expects* them all to have been fucking — including Prince — shakes his head, and moves up beside Prince, crouching down and letting himself get thoroughly sniffed. 

"What did *you* roll in, fox-face?" 

"My own sweat! And the sweat of three of the recruits —"

Treville coughs — 

"Always you assume *I* am thinking the filthiest of thoughts, when it is *you*, meneur —" 

"What are you *talking* about?" 

Reynard grins at him. "A *fight*. One of them nicked another with his blade where the skin was thin. There was *much* blood. That other is the lover of the third. The second tried to stop the fight. The third grew *jealous* —"

Kitos *thunders* laughter — 

"Whenever I doubt why I gave you that batch of recruits to work with... you remind me," Laurent says, sighing and pinching the bridge of his nose. 

"Oh, non, non, do not fret, Laurent! Their passions suit them well!"

"Mm. You worked them harder — again — than any of the other recruits." 

"I... we were working with blades —" 

"And your own passions shone through...?" And Laurent smiles wryly. 

Reynard smiles ruefully. "Je sais, you want me to let them rest for a day or two —" 

"They're practically due for a *leave*, brother —" 

"Not *yet*. Two more days. Just two," Reynard says, and wiggles his fingers. "We will let the lessons *set*, non? My boys, they will spend their leisure time *marinating* in —" 

"Booze and whores!"

"And *knowledge*, mon verrat. My boys will be the strong right arm of tomorrow's regiment." 

Kitos snickers and hands Reynard a flask. "Here's hoping we have enough of a *body* to hold that arm *still* when it needs to be." 

Reynard drinks — and scoffs. "You did *perfectly* well with me." 

"We had *three people*," Treville says, and reaches for the flask. 

Reynard tosses his hair — shot through with grey these last few years, but still and always gorgeous. "Meneur. Do I need to remind you *again* that I am *your* weapon...?" And he absolutely lets their fingers touch as he passes the flask. 

He — 

Oh, Reynard...

It's been too long for that, too, and too long for Kitos, and there are no excuses, and —

And Prince is asking him why. 

Prince knows full well what he's thinking and he's asking, he's wondering why his not-quite-human hasn't been *giving* himself to his brothers — 

It's a reasonable bloody question — 

Except that Prince is moving away from Reynard and coming to sit close to *him*, coming to lean against his leg and — 

And Treville can breathe easier, and think — 

Feel *better* when he rests his hand on Prince's head, when he scratches behind those floppy ears and gets the rumble — 

"All right, you two?"

His brothers are all... looking at *them*. And that's correct, but it's not *right*. "My thoughts got away from me for a moment," Treville says, and doesn't — quite — let his gaze linger on any of them. 

He pets Prince. 

He knows — 

He knows that *they* know he's thinking of the family he *used* to have. That he *has* been thinking of them, somewhere in the back of his mind — 

Treville squeezes his eyes shut and tamps it all *down* —

And Prince is leaning harder and licking his hand. The leaning might dislocate his knee if Prince isn't careful, but it's still greatly appreciated. 

"So, Reynard, we were discussing a certain mystery," Laurent says. 

As is that. 

"A mystery? Is it the question of how Prince can seem so magical but not feel magical at all to notre meneur?" 

"Specifically, fox-face — why doesn't he feel like a *familiar*. Though I still say that maybe the two of them have to do something to make the magic settle, or whatever." 

Reynard frowns. "Is that how it works?" 

Treville frowns, as well. "No, it isn't, which —" 

"Now, don't get up on that high horse, Fearless," Kitos says. "I already *know* it doesn't work that way. But I also know *you* don't work that way. As an example — were you even strong enough to have a familiar before Ife and the others changed you?" 

And Prince is looking at him curiously. 

"They — they augmented me. And —" Treville swallows, growls, and shakes his head. "I'll tell you later," he says, and he's losing control of his voice — 

And Prince is up and jumping on him — 

Licking his face — 

Which — is an excellent way to avoid seeing his brothers' wincing faces. 

He doesn't bother trying to say he's all right. He'd wind up with Prince's tongue in his mouth, for one, and, for another, he tries to keep his *abject* lies to a minimum. 

He just — 

He just takes his licking — 

And pets Prince — 

"So... who's going to talk now that I've put my foot in it?" 

"I say this," Reynard says, "how much does it *matter* that you do not know if Prince is your familiar? If he acts as such, if he is strong and sure and brave enough *to* act as such —" 

"He — bleh — he *is* —" 

And Prince rumbles and keeps licking — 

"So, he is your familiar now. All is well." And Reynard dusts off his hands. 

"Right, I like that fine," Kitos says. 

"It does seem expedient," Laurent says — 

"I would — I would agree — bleh — all right, please let me — talk —" 

Prince makes an aggrieved noise and gets down. And sits on Treville's feet. 

And Treville has to just — grin. "You're a bloody wonderful dog." 

Prince grins back and wags. 

"We're all agreed," Kitos says. "Tripe *whenever* he wants it." 

"And meat pies!" Reynard says. 

"And *sausage* — how do you feel about sausage, boy?" 

Prince yips and wags more. 

Laurent hums. "Steak."

Prince croons and dances on his paws without actually moving his arse off Treville's feet. 

Reynard and Kitos share a look — "I think our leader has won this round, mon verrat." 

"Yeah, well, he cheated. Used his um. His uh." 

"Yes, Kitos?" And Laurent looks *very* interested in the answer. 

"Your knowledge of the finer things in *life*, sir." 

"Hmm. What's Treville's excuse?"

"He's a bloody dog, too!" 

Treville lets his tongue loll for a moment. "That I am, sir." 

Prince gives him a *fascinated* look — 

Treville winks at him — 

Prince whuffs at him impatiently — 

"Right, yes, well — I will definitely say what I interrupted the licking for —" 

Prince whuffs again — 

"Right now: The dog *in* me wants me to know there's something actually *wrong* here." 

"Wrong how, Fearless?"

"Yes, what... was he specific in any way?" 

"Not in any of the helpful ways, no," Treville says, and pushes a hand back over his hair. "He doesn't see anything wrong with *Prince* — he wants to run and hunt and play with him as much as any of us do — but he's more sensitive to the magical currents and everything else than I am, and *he* says there's something wrong. Something wrong with the fact that I can't *feel* Prince." 

And the office goes silent for a long moment — 

And Prince gives Treville a worried look. 

Treville smiles ruefully. "It's all right, boy. We *will* figure this all out. And, in the meantime, we'll spend a lot of time together." 

Prince whuffs and rumbles, settling back into a lean. 

"Are you..." Kitos smiles ruefully, too. "You know what I want to say, right, Fearless?" 

"I do — and I *am* going to ask Ife about it. As soon as I can —" 

"I..." And Laurent winces. 

"What is it, brother?"

"I need you to travel for me." 

"Oh — fuck. *Courier*-work?" 

"You remain my ranking Musketeer, Treville. The Queen-Regent insists on such things, from time to time." 

"God *damn* it —" 

"There is *nothing* to say that you cannot take —" 

"His brothers?" And Kitos looks hopeful —

"His *dog*," Laurent says, and smiles wryly. "The Duc you're going to pay court to is an avid hunter. He'll appreciate it." 

"For fuck's — when are we leaving?"

"Tonight, if possible. The message came in about the accelerated timetable while you were at dinner. I truly am sorry." 

"No, no —" Treville sighs and blows out a breath, turning to Kitos. "My boys desperately need help with their footwork, and, if I'm gone for that long, start them on heavier conditioning. I want them to have the *breath* to use those practice swords all day and night." 

"You got it, Fearless — that's about where I am with my boys, too." 

Reynard scoffs. "You are too *gentle* with your boys —" 

"We *like* it when they don't plot to kill us in our *sleep*, fox-face." 

"But how do you know they will have the fire to *fight*?" 

Kitos and Treville *look* at Laurent — 

But all Laurent does is press a knuckle to his moustache and twinkle at the bloody *floor*, so really — 

There's no getting a sane answer out of him right now. Still —

He does feel better, lack of solid answers and shit-mission and all. 

He leans over to kiss Laurent's cheek again — 

"Oh — brother." 

"Thank you." 

"I did nothing —" 

"I beg to differ," Treville says, and nods to his other brothers, since Prince is still *on* him. "You blokes, too. You always set my head on straight." 

Kitos looks dangerously close to picking him up *with* Prince — 

Reynard just comes over and kisses him on the mouth. "Meneur, you must always keep us close," he says, not pulling back until he can *lick* Treville's mouth — 

Treville grins and licks him back, and gestures Kitos to come *over* — and the resultant hug squeezes the breath out of him and makes Prince make another aggrieved noise. 

It's bloody wonderful. 

The kiss is even better — soft and warm and loving and — Kitos. "Keep us close, Fearless." 

"I —" 

"Keep us," Laurent says, and turns Treville to face him, "Close." And his kiss is hard, so *hard* — 

His kiss is *brutal* — 

And Treville wants to promise that he will keep them close, that he'll keep them all close, that he'll never lock himself up again — 

Prince makes a questioning noise — 

Treville knows the dark times will come — tonight, probably, for one — and he'll be alone and too fucked-up to do anything about it. He'll be alone with his memories, and his hurts, and the *cold* inside of him that he's never, ever wanted anyone else to feel — 

But that's not right now. 

He gives himself over to Laurent's kiss, opens up for it and lets it happen, lets himself be *taken* — 

Laurent growls and *bites* — 

Growls harder and *clutches* —

Growls *harder* — and pulls back. "Little brother. Come home soon." 

Treville licks his lips, tips the hat he's not wearing, and grins. "I'll just see what I can do about that, sir." 

Laurent hums. "Your mission orders will be ready for you when you're ready for *them*. Dismissed." 

They go, Reynard taking the lead so he can get back to his recruits — he's *still* not done with them for the day — followed by Kitos, followed by Treville and Prince together. 

Prince is crowding him, a little. 

Treville can use it. 

Treville is reasonably sure he'll use it for every mile of the journey.


	4. You really do have to wonder what Treville did for — and *to* — the reputation of the King's Musketeers, all by himself.

The inn they stop at when it's finally too dark to ride is comfortable, homey, and exactly far enough out of Paris to not have much stronger than wine to drink. Well, he is technically working. 

Still, on a night like this... 

On a night when he's holding back his memories by main *force* —

Prince croons a question, quiet and urgent at once —

And the innkeeper is right there. "Lieutenant, are you certain you would not rather have your dog sleep with the horses tonight...?" The hopeful tone in his voice couldn't be *more* clear, but — 

"He stays with me, Monsieur," Treville says, and gives the man more coin — from his own purse, not the Musketeer-purse he's traveling with. 

"Oh — *yes*, sir! And please call me Broussard. Will you be needing anything in particular? For — for you and your dog?" 

Treville scans the inn reflexively for boys in need of his coin, but —

But this really isn't Paris, and this really isn't that sort of inn. 

And Prince is laughing at him. 

He tells Prince not to knock it until he's given it a *thorough* try, pulls up a smile for Broussard — a round little man with a thick shock of greying blond hair — and says, "Just some supper for both of us, and a few basins of water for me to have a wash before bed — and once I wake up in the morning." 

"*Yes*, sir. Will you be leaving us —" 

"Bright and early, Broussard. We have miles to make." 

"*Yes*, sir. Your horse will be cared for just as assiduously as he is in your garrison, sir, and I will bring your supper up personally." 

And *that* makes Treville wonder just how hard the taxes have been hitting the countryside since Henri's death that a few coins and a little — very little — politeness could get this much *care*, but — 

In the end, this is *one* of the things Laurent sends him out to do. 

Sends him out to *see*. 

Treville smiles at Broussard, bows over his hat, and allows himself to be led up to their rooms — the best in the inn for a Lieutenant of the King's Musketeers. 

Once they're alone, Treville disarms himself and tries to relax a little. Prince is examining the rooms in great detail — 

He whuffs — 

"Oh, you like them?" 

He rumbles. 

"There are *mice* for you to chase. I *see*. So long as you keep them from biting my toes while I sleep —" 

Prince makes an affronted noise. 

Treville laughs, helplessly, and — relaxes. 

Prince trots back out with a grin on his perfect face and croons a question. 

"You want to know about what Laurent has me doing? Other than playing messenger boy?" 

Prince yips. 

"Well — it's like this," Treville says, sitting down on the nicely-firm bed and scratching his beard. "We *have* spies. All over the place. Keeping an eye on everything, everywhere. Does that —" 

Prince yips again, impatiently. 

Treville blinks, but — all right. "They're looking — mostly — *out*, Prince. Out at the never-ending flare-ups of the various not-quite-wars. They see the domestic side of things — how things are going at home and all of that — but they might not add it to their reports, because they have a limited amount of time and a limited purview. They have to get the information they were assigned to get, and everything related to that, and they have to get that information back to Paris at speed. Does that...?" 

Prince yips and wags. 

"Right, then. So, if there's going to *be* anyone reporting on the domestic side of things — if only to Laurent, because there's no telling when or if he'll get the *chance* to offer this kind of report to the Queen-Regent — then it has to be me, and the rest of us, too."

Prince rumbles extensively, growls, *looks* at him — 

"Yes, Paris needs a lot of help —" 

More growls — 

"Especially the slums, I *agree* with you —" 

*More* growls — and. 

Treville swallows. 

Prince pauses and cocks his head to the side. 

"You... were in the Court of Miracles?" 

Prince whuffs. Gently. 

"I. I knew someone. There."

Prince *starts* to croon — 

"I can't talk about —" 

And there's a knock on the door. 

Treville lurches to his feet and *moves* for the door — and it's Broussard with their supper. 

Generous helpings of beef stew for both of them, and two maids behind him with steaming basins of water. 

It's a beautiful sight on a number of levels, and Treville lets them right in. 

One of the maids — a dark and pretty lass with the look of a farmgirl about her — makes a beeline for Prince as soon as she's set her basin down on the hearth, cooing and stroking him while Prince soaks it right up. 

The other maid seems content to use Prince's distraction to make a discreet escape, and Broussard — 

"Nathalie. Let us please give the gentleman and his dog time to *eat* their supper, hm?" And Broussard is smiling —

And Nathalie blushes under her sun-dark skin. "Sorry!" She scratches behind Prince's ears one more time, grins at both of them, and then runs out the door. 

Broussard smiles ruefully at them, bows deeply, and takes his leave after Treville grins back and inclines his head to all of them. 

Alone again — 

Treville sets Prince's stew right down on the floor — "You don't have to eat the peas, and I'm betting you probably shouldn't, but the rest should be fine." 

Prince licks his chops eloquently. 

"Damned right." 

They set to, and for several long moments, everything is just good, plain, hearty food and the many objectively-awful sounds of his perfect dog eating it. 

It's wonderful. 

It's — 

Treville can *breathe* — 

If anything, Prince eats *louder* — 

Treville sighs happily, and eats with his left hand so he can rest his right on Prince while he eats. 

There is...

Had he ever heard of something quite like this? Like this *peace*? 

Had he ever heard of a familiar giving his witch a feeling he hadn't had in — 

In —

But he doesn't have to think about it, does he? He can just feel it. Just have it. 

Just — sink right into it, like it's a *bath*. 

Look down at Prince's bowl and see a scatter of *polished* peas — and one, just one, mashed one. He'd given it a try and rejected it utterly. 

Good boy. 

Good boy. 

Treville gathers up their dishes and takes them out into the hall, and strips down to have a wash before bed. 

Maybe if he keeps bathing in this feeling — 

If he stays *close* to Prince — 

The nightmares will be milder. 

Prince leans against his leg. 

Treville sighs. "You're a good boy, Prince." 

Prince croons quietly. Gently. 

Treville firms his mouth into a hard line — stops that. 

*Stops* that. And sighs as he washes his upper body. 

"You live with me now. You *might* be my familiar. You — ought to know. You ought to know who and what I am." 

Prince leans harder, seemingly helplessly. 

And Treville doesn't know where to —"We would... wash each other. We would take care of each other. We would — my sister and I." 

Prince croons again. 

Treville smiles ruefully. "Yes, I had a sister. Not by blood. Not at *first*. Other than Laurent's wife Marie-Angelique, I mean. Kitos and Reynard met her at a teahouse not very far from the Court of Miracles. They'd been carousing without me. She was beautiful, and brilliant, and funny, and *mean*, and they tried and failed to make time with her. 

"Multiple times. This was... this was many years ago. We hadn't been Musketeers for very long. Still, Kitos and Reynard and I were already brothers — even though we weren't lovers — and they brought me in to *help* with her. Our sister. Our beautiful..." 

Treville growls a laugh. "Why they thought it would work is beyond me. I'd been in the neighbourhood before — chasing pretty boys —" 

Prince croons. 

"How old? *Always* old enough to have a good time with me. Too young is — too young. And worth having your bollocks nailed to your forehead. Also, old enough to mouth off to me *viciously* is a plus." 

Prince rumbles his approval. 

"Yes?" 

Prince rumbles *more* — and growls. 

Treville nods. "I'd never treat a child like prey. She — she knew that about me. My sister. Our sister. *Somehow*. I don't know..." 

Prince croons again. 

"Well, I do know. She was raised by witches, after she'd been freed by her former *masters* —" 

Prince *barks* — 

"Yes, she was a slave..." Treville swallows. "She never told me who had *owned* her. She said. She said that vengeance had been taken by her guardians, as was right and proper. She said that was how *they'd* earned her trust, and I'd have to do something different. So — so I tried... all sorts of things," Treville says, and laughs painfully, scrubbing over his face. 

Sitting down on the chair. 

Tossing the cloth into the basin and cupping Prince's wonderful face when he comes close. 

Petting him. Just — petting. 

Breathing. 

Petting — 

Taking his perfect dog's *peace* — 

"You're such a good boy..." 

Prince whuffs. 

"Yes. Yes, I miss her with all of myself. She was... she was my *sister*, but she was also." Treville swallows. His eyes are wet. His. 

And Prince is trying to climb onto his lap. He — 

The chair is creaking *ominously* —

Treville laughs *breathlessly* — 

Prince croons and resists Treville's pushes —

"We're going to break the *chair*, boy. Let's — let's get on the bed." 

Prince wags cautiously —

"It's all right," Treville says, and smiles wryly as he grips Prince by his ruff. "*I'm* a dog and I sleep on a bed all the time." 

Prince whuffs. 

"Well, all right, I *do* sleep on the ground much of the time — but the point remains —" 

Prince licks him and gets down — and jumps right up onto the bed, wagging and grinning. 

Treville crawls on on top of the duvet — he won't need to be under it with Prince right there *on* him — and. 

And it's even better than he'd thought it would be. 

It's even warmer, and sweeter, and more — 

And if Prince would just rest his great, perfect head on Treville's chest — 

Oh, it's so *good* —

Prince rumbles, right there, and Treville rumbles right back, holding his boy and petting him and just — 

That *peace* — 

He keeps himself in it until he can talk again. 

When he can: "I loved her in a moment. She had a laugh as big as the whole world, and I thought — I have to make her do that *all the time*. She told me, later, that all my gifts, all my favours, all my little attempts to get on her good side... none of them meant as much as all the ways I made her laugh. Made her *happy*. 

"I had to. I had to." 

Prince croons. 

"She was beautiful. A cloud of hair like — like a dark moon. She kept it under scarves as bright as the sun most of the time, but she would take it out when we were inside. She would. And. And she was strong. Muscular. She would let me... rub her down sometimes. Ease her muscles. She worked so hard..." And Treville swallows with a click — 

He's weeping silently again — 

Prince lifts his head — 

"No, no, please, keep. Keep your head on my chest," Treville says, and smiles ruefully. 

Prince croons again — 

"It feels — so good. So right. I don't know... but please." 

Prince rumbles and lays his head right down. 

"Thank you. Thank you," Treville says, and strokes him, and pets him, and holds him — "I didn't... we weren't — she was my *sister*. We weren't lovers. Not right away. If we had been, her guardians might've killed me," Treville says, and laughs rustily. "They *hated* me. They hated me before I even *met* — well. The youngest guardian — Ife — had a prophecy about me. More than one. The gist was that my sister — their *girl* — would fall head over heels in love with me and that there wouldn't be anything they could do about it. 

"I didn't find out about that prophecy until — oh, close to the end. But I wasn't who Ife and Lara and Layo wanted for their girl. They wanted a nice Yoruba boy for her. Biddable. Obedient. *Dutiful*." 

Prince croons again. 

"Ife, Lara, and Layo were Yoruba. She — she wasn't. She... she didn't really know..." Treville growls. "She was stolen from her people by the slavers when she was very young, thrown in with girls from several other tribes. She remembered little things about her people here and there, but not very much overall." 

Prince shivers. 

"It *is* an obscenity. It always has been, and — and she didn't let me talk about it much. I knew it wasn't my place. She *did* let me do for the men who had comments to make about her sometimes. *That* was satisfying." 

Another croon. 

"Even before we were lovers. We were friends. *Siblings*. And I taught her — more — about how to take care of herself. How to use a blade more effectively. That kind of thing." 

Another shiver — 

And another — 

Treville didn't catch — "Prince...?" 

Prince *presses* his head down against Treville's chest — 

Lets Treville feel his *force* — 

Lets Treville feel — his need for this tale. 

Treville licks his lips and strokes him more. "All right, boy. I won't stop now. I wasn't... the right kind when I met my sister. I liked boys and I loved men, and if they had a blade in their hand? It was all the better. That was about it. When I fell in love with my sister, there was very little happening below my belts, except sometimes. 

"When she would dance for me, sometimes. 

"When she would knife someone in front of me. 

"When she would laugh like an utter *arsehole* at something absolutely filthy — sometimes." He sighs. "I did want her, from time to time, but it wasn't... enough. It would've been like giving her half a man to try to seduce her, so I didn't try — even though I had an inkling that she wanted me." 

Another croon.

"Not that she was in love with me. I wasn't... I've never been very good at sussing that kind of thing out," Treville says, and laughs painfully. "In any event, Ife had another prophecy. This time, it was that my sister and the babe in her belly — she'd gotten herself a noble patron by the name of Belgard — would be in grave danger without a witch to protect them. A witch who could *also* fight like a soldier —" 

Prince croons *loudly* — 

And Treville laughs hard. "I — and my sister — were *weak* witches. And Ife and Lara and Layo wanted nothing to do with me. My sister convinced them to choose me anyway, though. I wish... if they'd chosen someone else..." Treville shudders hard. "They chose me, and they augmented both of us. They *bound* us, made us blood of each other's blood. They made her milk come early so we could be *completely* bound. 

"So I could be bound to her babe, as well.

"Our babe." 

"My — my *son* —" 

Prince croons and croons and *presses* — 

"We were lovers right away after that. We couldn't be anything else, even though she was extremely pregnant. She — I *took* her from Belgard. I begged her to cancel her rendezvous with him so she could be with me, and she did. 

"She did.

"She was my *wife*, and she would curse for the softness of my bed, and curl up spent beside me and sleep like a babe whenever we finished making love. My dog brought her meat, and kept her warm at night. We both buried our muzzles in her cunt and made her spend and spend and *howl*. 

"She told me that she used to laugh when she spent, that she missed it — 

"That she resented being bound to a dog for *that* reason and that reason alone —

"That she wanted to *run* with me, and hunt, and — ah, fuck. Ah, *fuck*..." 

And Prince is — panting. 

This is hard on him somehow. This is —"Prince?"

Prince croons, low and so *urgent*. 

"You — you need to know the end of the tale. All right. I'm sorry, I just —" 

Prince presses down on his chest — 

And Treville strokes him and breathes. 

Breathes. 

"There was never an official break with Belgard. There was also never a — an *easing* of the prophecy. We didn't think about either thing. I was needed for a mission into Spanish territory, needed with *all* my brothers, and, soon after I was gone, Belgard called my sister to his manor. She thought it *would* be to break it off, and brought the babe for him to see. 

"Belgard had an assassin. A madman. A — he was immune to earth-magic, and my sister... my Amina-love —" 

Prince *barks* — 

"She had to fight him off with Porthos in her *arms* —"

And Prince shudders and scrambles back, away — 

Sits up — 

*Away* — 

"Wait — don't —" 

But then... there's a *boy* on the bed. There — 

His clothes are ragged *scraps* — 

He's all but *naked* — 

Treville doesn't —

But he does understand, because the boy's eyes are Amina's eyes, and his mouth is her mouth, and his nose, and his *ears* — 

The boy *can't* be — 

But.

"Treville..." And the boy's voice is rusty, hoarse with *disuse* — 

And Treville can — feel. 

Treville can feel the boy's magic, which is his *own*, but he can also feel — 

Oh, he can *feel* — 

Treville growls and sits up, and he's all but prowling towards his boy, his beautiful — 

His hair is a wild *cloud* of soft curls — 

His skin is so —

And Treville is cupping his face, and stroking him, and Porthos, *Porthos* is shivering — 

Looking up that little distance into his eyes — 

His eyes are *Amina's*!

"T-Treville —" 

"You look. Just like her." 

"That's what — what people say —" 

"Son. *Son*. Did you get caught in your shift? You were stuck?" 

"Shit, I — most of the time I didn't know that I *wasn't* a dog, but —" 

Treville kisses Porthos's forehead hard — 

Porthos gasps, *jerks* — "Treville, please, you have to tell me what *happened* —" 

"Your mother fought off the assassin. Wounded him badly with her dirty blade — gave him a blood-sickness. I tracked him down later and got the story from him, but I couldn't find either of you. I killed him slow... then I killed Belgard slower than that." 

"*Shit*. How — how did you — Belgard was *gentry*. I mean, wasn't he?" 

And the more Porthos talks, the more he can hear the Court of Miracles in his voice. The more — 

Had he spent his whole childhood there?

Who had *helped* him?

Porthos makes a frustrated noise. "I — I spent my whole life there, Treville, and my mum, she found a death-witch —" 

Treville growls — 

"I know, I know, she told me to be careful around them, but Yejide is good. Not the friendliest sort, but she took care of me — and my friends, too. I have to let them know I'm all *right*. I have to — I'm not even sure how long I've *been* a dog —" 

"What was the weather like when you shifted?" 

"Bloody *cold*. And you weren't in Paris, so I was looking for you — you know, south. Towards Spain. You were traveling faster than I was, though, so you were all over the bloody place before I could find you — I. Do *you* know how long it's been?" 

Treville winces. "I haven't been near Spanish territory for over a year, son." 

"I... so long?" And Porthos licks his soft-looking lips and pulls back, plucking at his ragged clothes. "These weren't, you know, new or anything when I put them on, but..." 

Treville nods. 

Porthos whines. 

"Son —" 

"My friends — they all think I'm dead!" 

"I —" 

"It's just that I had to *find* you!" 

"I've been looking for you for nearly half my *life* —" 

"You — you — I had my mum's stories about her friends, about her friends who were really her *family*, and every time she tried to get *specific* about *anything* about her past she got *sicker* —" 

"Do you know why?" 

"*Yes*. Yejide explained — she said my mum got mixed up with a *bad* death-witch, who bargained her *life* away —" 

"I found him. I — about a year and a half ago." 

"Oh. Oh..." 

Treville lifts his hands to touch Porthos's face again — no, he'd pulled back. He won't. He won't. He drops his hands. "I thought it would make it better, after..." He growls. "I saw your mother's body. I saw what that monster had *left* of her. I saw your pictures on the tenement walls, and I — I smelled —" 

Porthos whines again — 

Treville growls and closes his hands into fists. "Lara and Layo were dead by then. Ife was able to help me find out Guillou's identity. Guillou's *mark*. He went into hiding. I hunted him while I was trying to find you. I found him in Lyons, practically by accident. I was there with my brothers for a mission. I wasn't expecting to smell his spoor. I left them to work and I destroyed him, one little piece at a time. I knew he couldn't tell me where you were. I knew he would've *taken* you if he could have. I still made him answer the question dozens of times as I took him *apart*." 

"Treville..." 

"It didn't make anything better. It didn't — if anything, I was a little bit colder. I was out of people to punish for my Amina-love's death, and I still didn't have *you*. That. That's why." 

Porthos blinks and cocks his head to the side. 

Treville smiles ruefully. "You wanted to know, before, why I didn't give myself to my brothers more fully. Why I didn't let them... make it better for me. I couldn't. There was... a gulf between me and anything like — I didn't *have* you!" 

Porthos pants — "Treville — you don't *know* me!" 

"Did you know me when you came to hunt me down?" 

"I was a bloody *dog* —" 

"You *are* a dog, son. And. So am I," Treville says, and pants. "And so was your mother. So was — she gave you her magic, didn't she." 

"I — yeah. That's what Yejide said. She said she wove it round and round me and all but *poured* it into me at the end so that fucking *monster* couldn't *get* it —" 

"That's why you shifted too soon." 

"What — what?" 

Treville smiles ruefully. "You've always been a little too... strong, haven't you." 

"I — I have to be careful, yeah —" 

"And of course you've always been bigger and healthier than everyone else around you." 

"Yeah, but —" 

"And you've always had to be *careful* with your *will*." 

Porthos... draws back that much further. It's the last thing Treville wants, but — his boy is thinking, and that's important. 

He — Treville will be patient. 

"Sometimes..." Porthos licks his lips again. 

"Yes, son?" 

"Sometimes things would just *happen* around me..." 

"Hm. Let's see. Going from what I've learned about you this last little while —" 

"You —"

"Let's see if I can guess what *some* of those things were," Treville says, and raises his eyebrows. 

Porthos frowns. "I — all right?" 

"Fights *stopping*. Shopkeepers and vendors being more generous to poor people. People in general being *kinder* to each other than they'd otherwise be." 

Porthos blinks and draws back even more — and Treville laughs helplessly. 

"I'd do just about anything to get you to stop doing that, son." 

"What — what — but you do better when I'm close. *I* do better when *you're* close. I — fuck. How do you — *why* do you know that?" And he doesn't move any closer *yet*. 

"Because you *are* a good dog, and a kind dog, and a gentle dog — you've a much better nature than I do, son. When my — augmented — powers would get away from me after your mother and I were first bound, the exact opposite sorts of things would happen." 

"Oh. *Really*?" 

"Well... there'd also be a *lot* of fucking." 

"I was going to *say*. Your mind is *filthy*." 

"That it is, son." 

"I mean — it's really — you were even thinking about what an attractive *dog* I was!" 

"I *am* a dog, son. And so are you." 

"I —" Porthos frowns. 

"Is that... too much?" And Treville lifts his nose — 

Tries to *see* —

He finds... confusion. Worry. Pain — "Oh, son. I'll help you find your friends —" 

"*How*? You can't bloody get *in* to the Court!" 

"No, I can't, but I can lubricate your passage," Treville says, and raises his eyebrows. 

"You — you'd give me *money*?" 

"You're my son. And, because I'm a paranoid sonofabitch, I'll follow you into the Court in dog-form, because I don't think I can let you out of my sight *quite* yet," Treville says, and smiles ruefully. 

Porthos blinks rapidly — and then frowns. "Why... why didn't you do that when you were looking for us? You could've —"

"I did it all the time. I found hints and traces of your scents. Tantalizing little..." Treville growls. "None of the scent-trails went anywhere, son. Not ever." 

"But... oh. Guillou made it so only one of *us* could break the spell, and if my mum did it... she would die faster," Porthos says, and growls, too. 

"That's just right." 

"Did my mum... did my mum give me all her magic so I *would* break the spell? So I would *have* to?" And Porthos's expression is wide-eyed, earnest, *open* — 

Treville takes a *breath* — 

"You have to — you *knew* her —" 

"She never would've taken happiness from you —" 

"But — if she thought... if she thought it would be *better* if I were with you —" 

Treville lifts his *hands* — drops them. "She was going to let me adopt you. We were going to be *married* —" 

"So she did it on purpose, then." 

"Son —" 

"No, I — I knew her, too. I loved her more than anything, but she was a hard woman. She wasn't — she wasn't *soft*. If she wanted something to happen, if she thought something *should* happen, then she would *make* it happen. No matter what stood in her way." 

Treville licks his lips. "I — yes." 

Porthos studies him for a long moment. 

"Son?" 

"You loved her for that. I mean — that's one of the reasons why you *really* loved her." 

And Treville — aches. "Yes. I — she was... she was everything." 

"Was she like... I mean, your brothers aren't really like that. Not even the Captain." 

"Don't doubt Laurent's ability to make things happen no matter *what* —" 

"No, I know, but —" 

"But I know what you're saying, son. She was... she was... maybe a little more like my father, if she was like anyone else in my life." 

"Oh. Yeah?" 

Treville grins. "And my father's chatelaine Marceline, who was the widow of one of his quartermasters, and tough as boot-leather. She beat me into shape *regularly*." 

Porthos snickers. "She sounds great." 

"She'd've loved *you*, son. A good, hard-working boy like you." 

"I — you *have* to work hard in the Court." 

Treville nods. "I bet you still worked harder than at least some of your friends, though." 

"Well, um. A bit —" 

"Maybe *most* of your friends...?" 

"I..." 

Treville hums and grins. "My boy."

"I — you..." 

"Yes?" 

"I'm... really your son." 

Treville licks his lips. "You're blood of my blood. You're..." He shakes his head. "When you cried, I would lay you on my chest and rumble and rumble just to try to calm you down a bit — and for the sheer joy of having you close." 

"Oh —" 

"When my Amina-love was pregnant with you, I did everything possible to convince her to sleep face-to-face with me, so I could feel you *kick*." 

"*Fuck* —" 

"When I was able to hook a bit of ribbon you'd managed to half-swallow out of your throat — and you bit me with the one tooth you'd half-managed to *grow* — I felt the most pure satisfaction I had ever *known*." 

"*Treville*, I... I've never..." And Porthos swallows and shakes his head. 

It hurts. It *aches*. But. "You've never had a father. All you've had is a missing *piece*." 

"*Yes* —" 

"That all changes now, son —" 

"*How* does it change? How... what are we supposed to do?" 

"I'll teach you everything I know — and you'll teach me. I'll help you whenever you need help — and you'll help me. I'll keep you warm and safe and *close* —" 

"You — you can't even do that with your *brothers*!" 

Treville jerks back — 

"Fuck — fuck, I'm sorry, I didn't mean — I know you've been *grieving* —" 

"No, son, shh, don't — don't berate yourself for that —" 

"I shouldn't've — I'm so sorry —" 

"Oh, my big, sweet boy — my big, sweet *prince* —" 

"And that — you called me that — you *meant* it the exact same way!" 

"I did. I just didn't *know* it," Treville says, laughing ruefully and pushing a hand back over his hair. He — no. He has to say it. "Everything's been different with you here, son." 

"What — what's different?" 

"I was thinking, earlier, of the peace I felt when I was touching you. Of how it was the *same* as the peace I felt when I had my Amina-love and — well, *you* —" 

"Oh. Oh..." 

"I haven't had that peace in fifteen *years*, son —" 

"Treville — fuck —" 

"I haven't — I've had... a hole in my heart. In my *soul*," Treville says, and smiles ruefully. "Nothing was right without you and my Amina-love. Once she was dead, the hole she left... scarred over. Badly. *Incompletely*. But still. But you... there was still a great, gaping wound for the cold wind to blow through, son. And I couldn't... I couldn't let anyone close to me. I couldn't let anyone feel that." 

Porthos frowns. "But... you're *supposed* to *be* with other people when you're grieving. That's the only way the pain stops." 

Treville studies his beautiful boy. "Did the pain stop for you, son?" 

"Not completely. It never really... I don't think it can, for something like this. But I can *think* about my mum, and *talk* about her, and not — not run *away* from people," Porthos says, and looks into him — 

*Pushes* at him half-consciously with all that power — 

Tries — 

Treville smiles. "You're already trying to teach me." 

"Trying is *right* —" 

"Kitos is going to love you even more —" 

"Treville —" 

"Son. I'm. I'm going to try. I think I *can* try now." 

"Oh. With. With me?"

Stay with me. Stay with me forever — "With you." 

Porthos inhales sharply, staring at him —

"I'm —"

"Don't — don't apologize for that, Treville." 

Treville winces. "Are you sure about that, son?" 

"Was it honest? No, I don't even have to ask that question. I *know* it was honest." 

"Is that. Is that the only thing that matters?" 

"I've. She never lied to me." 

"I'll never lie to you." 

Porthos swallows. "Are you hard like she was?" 

"Not — sometimes. Sometimes I am." 

"When?" 

"When you put me in a position of leadership and I *have* to be hard. When I'm making some pillock see the error of his ways. When I'm... when I have to be." 

"I think she *wanted* to be hard, at least sometimes." 

"Yes. She enjoyed it. And I... there are different ways to *be* hard —" 

"Reynard wants you hard." 

"It's not difficult to give that to him. It's — *that* comes naturally." 

Porthos nods thoughtfully. "He's your weapon." 

"He's my love." 

"Are they all your loves? I mean, I *know* they are, but is that how you *think* of them?" 

Treville grins. "Yes, son. On the night we met, your mother and I commiserated over *her* tea about the stupidity of men who didn't see what was right in front of their faces." 

"Oh — what?" 

"She knew right away that I was in love with my brothers — and hadn't done much of anything to let *them* know. And she knew right away that she was in love with me —" 

"And she hadn't let *you* know?" 

"She dropped hints like other people drop paving stones from rooftops, son, but *I* didn't realize that —" 

"Got it. Did Kitos and Reynard not realize it, either?" 

"They knew we loved each *other* — even though I wasn't that kind. There were any number of nights when Reynard would take me carousing alone so that Kitos could go to Amina and try to convince her to marry me even though I was a buggerer." 

Porthos stares at him.

Treville smiles ruefully. "I found this out much, much later." 

"But did you *want* to marry her even then —" 

"Yes. I wanted..." Treville shakes his head. "Not at first. Marriage didn't mean anything to me at first. But when I found out that marriage meant something to *her*..." 

"You wanted it." 

"Badly." Treville smiles wryly again. "She was the missing piece." 

Porthos blushes deeply — 

And Treville reaches out helplessly. He can't — 

He *starts* to drop his hand — but Porthos catches it and brings it to his face. He — 

His cheeks are smooth. 

His chin is fuzzy.

And — 

"*Fuck*, it feels so good when you *touch* me..." 

Treville shivers. "No witch would ever fight if having a familiar felt like this." 

"Witches *fight* that?" 

"Some do. I thought I would —" 

"*Why*?" 

"I'm a very bad-natured dog, sometimes —" 

"Bloody stop that!" 

Treville grins. "I think I'll have an easier time of that from now on..." 

Porthos pants — "You um. You want me to stay with you." 

"I need you to, son."

"Fuck —"

"And. You need me to tell me if you *do* need me to lie to you —" 

"*No* —" 

"Or at least... quiet myself down a little," Treville says, and smiles ruefully. 

"You're not. You're not quiet with your brothers." 

"Not anymore." 

"And — you weren't quiet with my mum." 

"Not in the least. Not even before we were lovers —" 

"See, that was my next *question*, because we're not — you're my — you're my father," Porthos says, looking down and blushing again. 

Treville grunts and — and tilts Porthos's face back up — 

Studies that frown — 

That *pained* look — "You try to move a little slower than this." 

"I *don't*." 

"No?"

"I just — think I should?" And Porthos laughs a little hard and hysterically. 

"Oh, son..." 

"Fuck, Treville, what do you want me to *call* you?" 

"Whatever makes you comfortable." 

"That's not how it's going to *work* if you *adopt* me." 

Treville winces — and nods. "You'd have to call me 'sir' or 'Father' in public —" 

"Would you *want* that?" 

"I don't want anything that hurts you, son."

Porthos shivers — and presses his cheek against Treville's palm. 

"Oh — son —" 

"She told me — one story. At the end." 

Treville nods. "I want to hear." 

"She — about her friends. About her *brothers*. And I didn't remember this story when I was a dog, but I remember it *now* and I just —" Porthos shakes his head and growls. And doesn't try to pull away. "She said they were *Musketeers*. She described them — *you*."

"Oh..." 

"Only not — not *you* specifically. She was *really* specific about Kitos and Reynard — except for giving their names. She was — she talked about Kitos's laugh, and how *cuddly* he was, and how he was huge and covered with hair. I remember asking her if he ever got food caught in his beard —" 

Treville coughs a laugh. "Not so's you'd catch him, son —" 

"That's what *she* said. And she said that Reynard was *really* pretty, and crazy, and *girl*-crazy — um. Is he?" 

Treville grins. "Yes. He's calmed down a *little* over the years, but he'll still go after *most* anything that looks fit in skirts if you leave him to his own devices." 

Porthos snorts. "She said he was really *respectful* of her even as he was just... *obvious* about trying to get her." 

"He's a Musketeer — and it didn't take all *that* much more time for him to love her than it took me to." 

Porthos licks his lips and stares at him, long and *hungry*. Obviously putting information he'd *had* into context, and — 

And. 

"What." Treville swallows. "What did she say about me?"

"She said you weren't pretty and you weren't tall, but that you were beautiful and had all the best laughs. She said that you were hers, and she was *yours*. She said. She said you were my true father, and that she'd always love you. Always." 

Treville winces and growls — 

Needs — 

*Aches* — 

"Oh — Treville —" 

"No — I —" 

"Don't tell me you're all right!" 

"I bloody *won't*," Treville says, and laughs with another growl, scrubbing his hands over his face. "But I never want to interrupt you, son. Or make you wait." 

Porthos looks at him wide-eyed. 

"Not ever."

"I — um." 

"Yes, son?"

"You're bloody allowed to make me wait so you can *grieve*, Treville." 

"And if I'd rather spend my time celebrating you, son?" 

"*Treville* —" 

"If I'd rather spend my time thanking every power I can think of that you're finally, *finally* close enough to *touch*?" 

Porthos pants — and laughs ruefully. "So a part of me.. a part of me is only hacked-off because my big plan to *educate* myself so that I could be a Musketeer someday —" 

Treville grunts — 

"— has been put on hold for a *year* —" 

"*Son* —" 

"I just — what else am I supposed to be? What else am I supposed to *do*?" 

"What — what you *want* —" 

"What do *you* want me to do?" 

"I have *dreamed* of teaching you *weapons*, son —" 

"Then —" 

"But I can do that if — if you choose to be a *monk* —" 

Porthos *splutters* — 

Treville grins. "We'll send you into Spain to 'pray for' our enemies —" 

"*Fuck*, Treville —" 

"Now go with me on this, son, we may have just solved France's problems for the next generation —" 

Porthos snickers — "You —" He shakes his head. "I want. I want to be around people. That's what I want." 

Treville... knows he looks too hungry. "You want... casual relationships? People in and out of your life —" 

"*No*. I want — I want brothers. *Sisters*, too. I want — like I had coming up. People who would watch my back and I'd watch theirs. People I could do everything with. Eat with, sleep with, play with — I. *Family*." 

"You know the regiment is my family, son," Treville says, and licks his lips. 

"I *do* know. I — was it hard to let my mum in? After all those years of being a soldier?" 

"No. She... she burst in. Like artillery, actually," Treville says, and they laugh together. 

Porthos's eyes are so *bright* — 

And so, so much softer than Amina's. 

That's why he hadn't recognized them in Prince. 

"She loved you so much, son." 

Porthos blinks — "You... remember that?" 

"Yes. And I can see it. She *was* a hard woman, and the two of you had a hard life together, but... I think she showed you her smiles. Her *laughter*." 

"Oh — *yeah*. And — and she always made sure I was happy. She would. She would call me 'sweet boy' and tell me stories about her days. I always wanted her stories." 

Treville strokes Porthos's face helplessly — 

And Porthos moans and laughs. "You've got such good *hands*, Treville." 

"I — do I?" 

"I always wanted them on me when I was Prince. For more than just the... you know. *Bond*." 

Treville rumbles and urges Porthos closer — 

"Oh — I — all right —" 

"You *don't* have to —" 

"I *know*. But it occurred to me about ten minutes ago that you wouldn't be able to touch me all the time in front of other people if I were in human form, and, well..." 

Treville growls and *hauls* his boy close —

"*Shit*, you're strong —" 

Hauls him into a straddle of his lap —

"Is this — is this how you want me?" 

And *then* Treville thinks about what he's doing, and how he's doing it, and — 

And they're staring at each other from very, very close — 

*Very*, very close — 

And Porthos snickers hard. "You've done this with about a *thousand* boys, haven't you." 

Yes. "I..." 

Porthos *guffaws* — 

And Treville just stares, helpless and needy. The tones are all different, but — 

But Amina had laughed just that way at him.

All the *time*. 

And if he can make his son laugh like this for him — 

"Just — just keep being a bloody *deviant*!" 

Treville coughs — "Well, son, I — I believe you're in luck —" 

Porthos splutters — 

"I mean, I was planning to give it up —" 

"You were *not*!" 

"No, I wasn't. I wasn't ever —" 

Porthos snickers — 

"Oh, son —" 

"You're — you're bloody *easy* —" 

"Your laughter is *perfect* —" 

"So you're going to spend all your time telling me *jokes*?" 

"I... will probably spend a certain amount of time teaching you, too?" 

Porthos gives him a shove. "You better! I've got to catch up!" 

"My big, perfect boy..." 

"You don't — you don't even know —" And Porthos frowns, drawing back again — 

"No, not that —" 

"You don't know what I can *do*, Treville!" 

"What —" 

"You don't know — I could be shite at all the weapons and —" 

"*How* long were you living — *surviving* — in the Court of Miracles?" 

"All my *life* —" 

"And my Amina-love had to teach you just a *few* things about taking care of yourself before she died — even though you were small. Didn't she." 

"Of bloody course she —" 

"And you learned a lot more than that over the years just *to* survive." 

"*Treville*. I know what you're saying, but that's all different! That's not — not swords or guns or —" 

"Listen to me, son," Treville says, and cups his beautiful boy's face again. "The grace you learned? The speed, the decisiveness, the ability to choose the best targets at the best times and all of the countless other things that kept you alive and hale and *whole*?" 

"I —" 

"*Listen*. All of that is the *immensely* sturdy foundation we'll build on to teach you the sword, the guns, and everything else you don't know. Trust me when I say that other men who come to us do *not* have anything like that foundation — and often *do* have terrible things which get in the *way* of the teaching."

Porthos blinks. "I — oh. Like what?" 

Treville smiles wryly. "You were going to work hard to save up money for education, weren't you?" 

"*Yes* —" 

"Including finding some salon which would take you in so you could learn fencing?" 

"Of *course* — why. Why are you shaking your head?" 

"I don't know how it is in other parts of the countryside, son, but the salons in Paris are shite for teaching military swordplay." 

"What — they — they are?" 

"They can teach a man how to fence for *points* — they can teach that all bloody day, son — but that's not what *we* do. That's not *war*. When I pull my blade, I'm trying very, very hard to *kill* someone. Often *multiple* someones —" 

"And. That's not what they're teaching," Porthos says, nodding thoughtfully. "That would explain..." 

"Yes, son?" 

Porthos ducks his head as much as he can with Treville holding him — 

"Tell me. Tell me everything. I need to *know* you." 

Porthos gasps — and looks up again."You couldn't feel me the way I could feel you."

"No, son." 

"You couldn't — and you were so warm, so — I could see everything in your *head* sometimes —" 

"I feel like I should *apologize* —" 

Porthos snickers — "Apologize to your *brothers* for not being *open* with them." 

"I — I will," Treville says, and smiles ruefully. 

Porthos looks at him — and nods. "But — you can feel me now, right? You can... see?" 

"I'm... not looking." 

"Uh." 

"I'm... trying to give you your privacy —" 

"Uh..." 

"I *shouldn't* try to give you — son." 

"No, no, I'm not saying your *instincts* are bad here, Treville, but — you're kind of starving." 

"I." Treville pants. "I've starved for you." 

"Yeah, and —" 

"I don't want. I don't want to push you away." 

For an incredibly warming moment, Porthos looks at him like he's *mad* — but then he frowns and nods. "You're afraid of being too much for me."

"Yes." 

"You're afraid — what do you think you'll *do*, Treville? I mean, you already can't stop touching me, and I *like* that." 

Treville growls — stops that. 

"Treville?" 

"Ignore that —" 

"I don't think I will —" 

"*Please* ignore that —" 

"Bloody *no*. You just got *hot*." 

Treville pulls *back*, dropping his hands — 

Porthos looks down at Treville's *breeches* —

And Treville's idiot cock jerks. 

"*Fuck* —" 

"Porthos —" 

"Stop holding back. Right now. Tell me — *show* me — everything you're *thinking*." 

"I —" 

"*Do* it!" 

Treville grits his teeth — "Don't leave —" 

"I won't bloody leave!" 

Treville gasps —

"Fuck, you — just show me!" 

And Treville nods and takes Porthos's hands in his own, just his hands, and he — 

_And they're in his bedroom suite in his rooms in Paris, him and Amina, and Amina is naked and hugely pregnant, and Treville's stained breeches are around his ankles._

_Amina is sitting on the side of the bed and Treville is kneeling between her spread legs —_

_Amina is laughing and *smacking* him —_

_"Now, now, Amina-love, I'm *never* going to work out the code of these kicks if you keep distracting me —"_

_"Code —" Amina splutters and begins kicking Treville herself —_

_"Well, I think I know *this* code —"_

_"Oh, *do* you?"_

_And Treville growls and lifts her easily into his arms, spins them —_

_"*Oh* —"_

_Kisses her and nips her and squeezes her tight, *tight* —_

_She wraps her arms around his neck —_

_He carries her back to the bed and lays her down near the foot of the bed —_

_She grabs him by the *cock* — "What about *this* code, sweet brother, hm? Do you know this code....?"_

_"Unh. I think —"_

And Porthos gasps and blinks and *stares* — 

"I'm sorry —" 

"Don't *apologize*!"

"I — no?"

"She — she's so *healthy*!" 

Treville growls and squeezes Porthos's hands *tight*. "*Here*." 

_And Amina and Treville are in her *hatbox* of a kitchen — not far from the teahouse, and *rather* far from her guardians — and they're finishing off the second bottle of wine Treville had brought. She's not pregnant, yet — but there's still plenty of plumpness to her features, and over all her *muscle*._

_She's giggling —_

_Snorting —_

_Honking and giggling more —_

_Dragging Treville to his feet and making him *dance*, which is fine, absolutely wonderful, but —_

_But..._

_"Amina-love..."_

_"*What*."_

_"What dance *is* this?"_

_"*All* the dances!"_

_"At *once*?"_

_And Amina makes a sound like a gurgling snort *while* twirling —_

_Treville can only *stare* —_

_Promise himself to bring wine more *often* —_

_Oh, now she's *shimmying* —_

_"You do it, too!"_

_He absolutely will._

"Oh my *God*." 

Treville grins. 

"I — I'd never *seen* her drunk!" 

"I imagined you hadn't —" 

"She — d'you have —" 

"I do." 

Porthos grins *shyly*. "I want them all." 

"You'll have them, son. And your Uncles will share their own —" 

"My — what?"

Treville blinks, but — but. He smiles wryly. "Did you think I was your only family, son? We *all* loved your mother. Reynard and Kitos were closest to her other than me, but Laurent and his wife Marie-Angelique were also —" 

"Um." 

"Yes? And Laurent's sons *are* your brothers. I *sincerely* hope once we get you enlisted as a recruit, Laurent will see reason and let Olivier enlist, too. He's a wonderful boy. *Both* he and Thomas are, but *Olivier* is born to be a soldier." 

"Am — do you think I'm born to be a soldier?" 

That... "I think you have more options than Olivier." 

"What?" 

Treville smiles ruefully. "I *want* you to be a soldier, son, and I'm trying hard to be fair about it, and not pressure you — certainly *my* father let me have my head as much as possible — but I think Olivier would be absolutely miserable in the vast majority of professions and lifestyles that didn't involve killing people for country and king, and I think *you* have more options than that." 

Porthos nods thoughtfully. "Thank you." 

"You're —" 

"You distracted me — or tried to." 

Fuck. 

"You showed me my mum instead of —" Porthos narrows his beautiful eyes and looks at him hard. "You were thinking about being *hot* for me, Treville." 

"You — you asked me to show you *everything* I was thinking about —" 

"You... were also thinking about my mum?" 

"I can't help thinking about her tonight. It... I can't help it." 

Porthos licks his lips and nods. "All right. I won't be too hacked-off at you. But... show me the rest," he says, and keeps giving Treville that hard look. 

The urge to hide — 

The urge to *resist* — 

He doesn't do either. He — 

He holds his perfect son's *hands* — 

_They're on the bed, in the inn, and Porthos is laughing hard, laughing beautifully, and Treville has to touch, he always has to —_

_His beautiful *boy* —_

_And he's cupping his face, holding him still —_

_They're looking into each other's eyes —_

_Porthos stops laughing —_

_Treville apologizes and kisses him, feels him, feels his mouth, and he can imagine what that mouth feels like, but he also can't —_

_He kisses, he kisses deep, and Porthos doesn't stop him, Porthos is —_

_Too shocked, or —_

_Too curious —_

_Too —_

_Porthos is *letting* him, and Treville can show him how *good* it can be, Treville can lick from his mouth to his little round ear, lap and nuzzle, growl, nip —_

_Cup Porthos's hips and pull him closer, feel his heat, let Porthos feel *his* —_

_Press —_

_Press so *close* —_

_Nibble down to his strong throat and find every sensitive *place* —_

Porthos grunts and squeezes Treville's hands. 

"Porthos —" 

"That's how you do it. That's how you start with — boys you don't know." 

Treville pants — "I — yes. There are other things, but if we've made it into a position like this one —" 

"But you do know me." 

"Porthos —" 

"You —" Porthos shakes his head. "There's nothing wrong with your *technique*, Treville." 

"Thank you?" 

"But if you're going to fuck your *son*, then I'd think you wouldn't do it just any old way." 

Treville stares. 

Porthos looks at him. 

Treville grins. "She said she'd raise you to be just like me, you know." 

"Did she? I keep fewer secrets." 

"That you do." Treville licks his lips. "She said... she said she'd raise you to be bold and brave and — oh, son. Son, I want you." 

"I know that. *You* don't know how I feel." 

Treville growls. "You want me to stop — son, I don't know how well I'll do at giving your privacy *back*." 

Porthos gives him a thoughtful look for that.

"Yes, *think* about it —" 

"You don't trust your control around me." 

"No, I — fuck — *fuck*. I won't *hurt* you —" 

"I know that, you know," Porthos says quietly. "I knew that about you before we met." 

Treville growls — 

And Porthos nods. "But you're going to lose it. You *are* losing it, one little — or big? — piece at a time." 

"*Yes* — but I won't —" 

"You'll still take care of me —" 

"I'll *always* take care of you!" 

Porthos searches him. "I don't think you can know what it was like, losing your mum in a place like the Court. Or... did my mum tell you about her life as a slave? Did she... but you said she saved that for her guardians." 

"She told me — some. Not enough. Not enough for me to —" Treville growls. "It drives me *mad* that I couldn't *help* my *family* —" 

"I know that about you. But... I think you need to know something else," Porthos says, and brings Treville's right hand to his chest, pushing the ragged scraps of clothing aside so Treville can touch warm flesh. 

"Son —" 

"Look at me." 

"*Son* —" 

"*Look* at me!" 

Treville groans and shoves the small barriers between them aside, knocks them over and hopes he can find some way to put them back *up* again someday — 

_And he's looking at the Court._

_He's looking at the Court from the dog's vantage point — no, from Porthos's, when he was a child. The colours are fast and human enough. The sounds and smells are awful but not —_

_But he can *feel* Porthos, and he knows, abruptly, when this moment is._

_He knows that *behind* Porthos is the tenement with Amina's body —_

_He knows that Porthos is alone except for the death-witch at his side *not* holding his hand —_

_He knows that Porthos is alone, and *knows* that he's alone, knows that the world is huge and full of knives and clubs and cold and sickness and *hunger*, and that there's no one —_

_There's *no* one —_

_He knows that Porthos would give almost anything to have someone hold his hand._

Treville shudders and *clutches* his boy — 

Pulls him close, so close — 

Holds him — he won't let him *go* — 

And he can feel Porthos... relax. 

He. 

Porthos laughs. "You see what you can get when you treat me like you *know* me?" 

"I..." 

"Go on, keep *looking*." 

Treville turns and kisses Porthos's cheek before he does anything else, and strokes his back and sides, and breathes him *in* — 

Porthos is clutching his shoulders from the back — 

Porthos is nuzzling at his *throat* —

"Son..." 

"*Look*." 

"You feel. You feel so bloody *perfect* —" 

"I *know* I do —" 

"Do you... not like hearing it?" 

"No, I love — would you just look?" 

Treville turns and holds Porthos's earlobe between his teeth — 

"Oh —" 

— and looks. 

And finds Porthos's need to *be* with him when he was making love, even when he was Prince — 

Finds Porthos's need to be with him all the time, every moment, every *possible* — 

Treville had known exactly what he'd lost in Porthos. Porthos had *never* known what he'd lost, and once he'd gotten it back — 

Once he'd had a *taste* of it — 

_And they're in the inn, on the bed, and Treville has one hand *buried* in Porthos's wild curls, gripping them tight, and the other wrapped round his cock, stroking slow, stroking hard, stroking *ruthlessly* as he makes promises —_

_As he makes so many *promises* that Porthos can't *hear* —_

Treville snarls in Porthos's ear. "When. Tell me when, son." 

"I — I..." 

"I'll give that to you *anytime*." 

"Fuck — uh. You didn't see *everything* —" 

"More, son? More for us?" 

"Us — oh, fuck, yeah. Yeah, I —" 

Treville licks Porthos's ear slow and wet —

Porthos groans *low* — 

"Good boy. I'll look right now..." 

_And they're in Treville's bedroom, in his rooms in the city, and Treville is up against the *wall* —_

_And his beautiful boy is on his knees, sucking and licking and —_

_And kissing Treville's *knot* with every *thrust* —_

_And Treville is stroking Porthos's face and hair —_

_And making promises Porthos can't *hear*._

Treville knows there's more. 

He keeps looking — 

_They're in a *brothel* —_

_They —_

_It's a *mixed* brothel, and there are boys and girls *and* women —_

_And Treville is laughing with the Madame as he leads a red-haired, freckled boy upstairs with him and *Prince* —_

_And Treville is *teaching* Prince all about his technique as he —_

_As he *goes* —_

_The boy is scoffing and mocking until Treville makes him lose the ability to do more than curse and moan and *sob* —_

_Treville *holds* Prince while the boy sucks Prince's *cock* —_

_And then Prince watches *avidly* while Treville fucks and *knots* the boy, coming over to lick and lap and nuzzle at where they're joined and —_

"Son." 

"Thought you'd like that one." 

"Do *you* —" 

"Well..." 

"Son —" 

"I think I'd like it better if there were more talking. I always like to spend time talking with the boys and girls and men and women I hire, you know." 

Treville sighs.

"No?" 

"Yes. You're bloody perfect." 

"So you *will* use your ridiculous amounts of money to take me whoring." 

"I — I'm really not that wealthy —" 

"I'm looking at you funny, Treville." 

"I'm shutting up. We're going whoring all the time." 

"*Thank* you." 

"Also, your Uncles are now ecstatic and haven't the faintest clue why." 

"Even the Captain?" 

Treville licks Porthos's ear, and cheek, and throat — 

"Oh — oh, yeah, that feels *great* —" 

"I'm very happy about that," Treville says. "Can you fold your ear forward for me?" 

"Um? Maybe? But answer me —" 

"Absolutely, son — oh, there you are, just hold your ear like that," Treville says, and laps and laps and *laps* — 

Porthos *groans* — 

"Good boy. Laurent doesn't — mm. He doesn't go whoring with the rest — mm, you — I love you —" 

"Shit —" 

"Are you *surprised*?" 

"A *little*!" Porthos snickers and pulls back enough that they can meet each other's eyes. "Was that *enough* for you?" 

"No. Nothing will be 'enough' for me, son. But I knew I loved you when you were still Prince." 

"Oh." 

"You're a perfect dog." 

"I mean, I know I'm a good bloke —" 

"I saw how gentle you were with everyone who needed you to be gentle —" 

"A lot of people — I could've used some gentleness —" 

Treville growls and squeezes Porthos tighter — 

"Oh — oh, yeah, or that," Porthos says, and laughs. "And it's not like you don't make me feel just perfect inside. So warm and light and *happy*." 

"Peace. You give me *peace*." 

"Your *cock* doesn't feel all that peaceful against mine —" 

"Well..." 

"Yeah? Make it good, now..." 

And Treville — blinks. Just...

Porthos blinks back at him — and winces. "She said that. All the time." 

"Yes, and I — I haven't heard it —" 

"I won't say it —" 

"Don't — don't change. Don't change a damned thing." 

"But —" 

"Son. I want you. *Including* the parts of you she built *directly*." 

Porthos inhales sharply — and nods. "It's not like..." He snorts. 

He snorts *hard* — 

And then he snickers. 

Treville drinks it in with his eyebrows up. 

"'s just — fuck. It's just — a part of me had *forgotten* how deviant it was to get involved with you." 

Treville blinks. 

"*You* never did." 

"No?" 

"Not for a —" Porthos pants and grins. "You're bloody amazing." 

It's not the first time he's been admired for the scope and *depth* of his deviance, but — 

"You didn't expect your *son* to do it, Treville? I thought you said my mum said she'd raise me to be just like you!" 

"She *did* —" 

"*So*?" 

"I — hm." Treville grins at his beautiful boy — 

And Porthos grins right back. "I wish you'd been right there. I wish — I wish I'd grown up *knowing* you." 

"I —" 

"Not even for how much *easier* life would've been. Fuck that! I just want *you* to have been there to answer all my questions, and tell me stories, and look funny when my questions were really bloody *weird*." 

"I would've answered them anyway —" 

"I *know* that about you. I want —" And Porthos licks his lips and searches him. "You actually..."

"Porthos?" 

Porthos rumbles and leans in, kissing Treville softly — 

"Oh, son..." 

He kisses Treville again — 

Again — 

"Son, I —" 

"You're my father," Porthos whispers. "You're my father, and I — I love you, too —" 

Treville groans and licks Porthos's mouth — 

His chin — 

His mouth again — 

"Fuck — Daddy — I mean —" 

"You meant that, don't take it back," Treville says, and his blood is *boiling* —

He's panting and growling under his breath — 

He's clutching Porthos's *hips* — "You *meant* it." 

Porthos pants and moans with his wet lips parted — "I did. I did, Daddy, and we — we were separated for so long —" 

"Too *fucking* long —" 

"Maybe it can make *sense* —" 

"It *all* makes sense!" 

"*Fuck*. Touch me, please touch me, please — please don't *seduce* me —" 

So Treville shoves Porthos back just *enough* — 

"Nnh —" 

Opens his ragged breeches — 

"Please — *please* —" 

His hard, *thick* cock pops right out, and, yes, it's already starting to change into a dog's cock. It's still mostly human — 

"Oh — *shit* —" 

"Shh, son, shh, I'll explain it all to you —" 

"What — I just — I just need — please don't *stop*, Daddy —" 

"I won't, son. Not now that I have you," Treville says, and *forces* the proto-sheath back and back — 

"UNH — oh, fuck — oh, *fuck* —" 

"Oh, look at your beautiful cock... so thick and red..." 

"Daddy — *please*, Daddy!" 

"You need to be sucked *daily*, son. But we can start with this," Treville says, and moves his hand to the shaft he knows is sensitive, tender — 

Porthos whines so *sweetly* — 

"You feel my calluses, son?" 

"Yes, Daddy, I want them, I want them so badly —" 

"You want them like this?" And Treville starts to stroke, just like Porthos had shown him doing it in the fantasy — 

Porthos's mouth falls open — 

His eyes go *glassy* — 

His breathing is *ragged* — 

"Oh. Son..." Treville licks his lips and pushes his free hand into Porthos's sweaty hair — 

Porthos whines again — 

*Again* — 

Treville gives him another gentle squeeze — 

"Daddy!" 

"Harder, son? Or just like that?" 

"Please — I don't — I don't..." 

"You don't know?" 

"No, Daddy, please —" 

"Should I choose for you, son?" And Treville keeps stroking, keeps *working* that beautiful cock — 

"Nuh — ungh — oh, Daddy — oh, *Daddy* —" 

"Should I make you..." Treville sighs and squeezes *gently* again — 

Porthos *sobs* — 

"Should I make you really *feel* me?" 

Porthos pants and pants and stares almost *wildly* into Treville's eyes, needy and hungry and so *beautiful* — and Treville remembers that his son *is* a boy, a *young* boy, that the same kinds of questions and torture that would work for a Reynard — or a Kitos or a Laurent, for that matter — can't *quite* be used for him. 

No matter what he wants *before* he loses control. 

Treville leans in and *licks* his boy's mouth, licks him slow, licks him wet, licks him *dirty* — 

"Daddy — Daddy..." 

"Love it when you slur into my mouth, son," Treville says, and *unfurls* the dog's tongue into Porthos's mouth — 

"*Mm* —" And Porthos's cock *jerks* in his hand — 

Treville squeezes just a *little* harder — 

Porthos sobs and *screams*, messy and loud around Treville's tongue, messy and *bucking* into Treville's fist — 

Treville pulls back and shortens his tongue — "That's right, son, that's just right. I'll never let you go —" 

Another sob — 

"I'll never let you up for *air* —" 

Porthos bucks *hard*, leaking all over Treville's *hand* — 

"You'll always be mine, you. You were mine when you were still in your mother's *womb*, and I loved you, I loved you like nothing *else*. Now *spend*," Treville says, and squeezes again —

Porthos *howls* — 

Stills all *over* — and spurts all over both of them, cock jerking and spasming even as his eyes roll back in his head. 

"That's beautiful, son. That's... oh, son, you make me so *hard*..." 

Porthos spurts *more*, gasping and crooning — 

"You make me hungry, needy... I can't wait to *taste* you..." 

"D-Daddy —" 

Treville squeezes him again — 

Porthos yips and spasms — but doesn't spurt any more. Mm. Next time. 

Treville strokes his way off Porthos's cock and brings his messy hand up between them, raising an eyebrow before licking it clean. Nice and slow. 

Porthos pants and stares. "Daddy..." 

Yours, son. 

"*Fuck*, Daddy — you — you haven't — done that. Talked to me directly like that." 

"Mm. It's convenient when your mouth is — mm. Mm. Fuck, you're a delicious boy — busy." 

"Uh. Did you — I know you can do it with your brothers. And you must've been able to do it with my mum." 

"We — all — mostly kept to the other way of doing things. Mostly." 

Porthos nods thoughtfully, and then leans in and licks the last spatters of spend off Treville's wrist. His tongue is human, but it feels... perfect. 

Treville loosens his grip on Porthos's hair and starts stroking and petting him, instead. 

(I think you'd prefer the dog, sometimes.) 

Treville snorts. "The dog inside me would. And I suspect the dog inside *you*..." And Treville raises an eyebrow. 

Porthos looks up and smiles ruefully. "Right, you've got a point, Daddy. 'course, I haven't *seen* your dog."

"And you *won't* while I'm this hard, because he gets aggressive when we're randy."

Porthos blinks. "He um... all your brothers talk like he has *more* control than you do, Daddy." 

"He does — generally. But he's still a dog." 

"Right, got it. And the reason why you talk about him like he's not you? Does it have something to do with how you and mum were — augmented?" 

"*Exactly* that, son. We were weak witches when we were born. I didn't even know I *was* a witch until Amina told me." 

"Shit, *really*?" 

"Yes. We were bound to dog-spirits as part of the process needed to strengthen us — it was the only way it could work, since we were both earth-mages aligned with the canine — and that's how I came to know my dog."

"And... mum couldn't shift because of the evil spells on her," Porthos says, subdued again.

"No, son. There's no way for a death-mage to even *try* to control a shifter that way — not without angering the All-Mother, if I understand things correctly — but if the shift is blocked entirely..." 

Porthos growls and clutches Treville tighter. "I'm glad you took that bastard apart, Daddy. I'm glad you — you did it slow." 

Treville closes his eyes — and nods, pulling Porthos in closer. The spend on their chests and bellies is slick and warm between them — and is making even more of a mess of Porthos's *rags* — but Treville was always going to have to buy him new clothes of *some* kind before they left this little town, even though he can't get him *appropriate* clothes. 

"Hunh." 

"Mm?" 

"I'm not going to spend the whole mission shifted, Daddy? I mean, it's not like you can introduce me to a bloody Duc." 

"I'm *going* to be introducing you to a *lot* of gentry over the next little while, son." 

"Uhh..." 

"But it's true that you're going to get some education on how to deal with those people first." 

"*Thank* you. *Shit*. But —" 

"We have to keep you shifted, yes. But accidents happen. You had no control over when you shifted back to human-form, did you?" 

"I was bloody *trying* to for a *while*." 

"Oh." 

"*Yeah*. I — fuck. I wasn't *dead* certain you were talking about my mum right *away*, but it didn't take *long*. I just couldn't figure out how to be human until you said my name." 

Treville strokes his boy just a little firmly. "Ife always said logomancy played a role in the spells that separated us." 

"Ohh... shit. That makes *sense*." 

Treville smiles wryly and licks Porthos's ear. "Your Yejide taught you well." 

"She *really* did, Daddy. She's probably going to be a little iffy about how well *you* can teach me this stuff." 

Treville laughs hard. "I'll hide behind Ife. Once I bring you home to her, she'll hate me slightly less." 

Porthos snickers. "Yejide always said realistic goals were important." 

"That's *right* —" 

"Um. Why is my cock... like that?" 

Treville rumbles. "Because you're perfect." 

"Daddy." 

"Because you're my son? Is that better?" 

"*Yes*. But mostly no. Just *tell* —" 

"It's your mark, son. You're an earth-mage, you're a shifter, and you're a dog. If you didn't have a cock like that even when you were in human-form — and it *will* keep changing — then there'd be something decidedly odd." 

"I — oh. Yejide didn't know much about shifters. Or — well, she told me that most of what she knew about earth-magic was what my *mum* taught her before she died." 

Treville nods. "One of the ways I caught Guillou... well, he knew to run, and he knew to *hide*, but he didn't know *how* to hide *effectively* from an earth-mage. Earth-magery has so many opposite... oh, let's call them *forces* from death-magery that two witches from the different orientations can have great, big blind spots very easily." 

Porthos nods thoughtfully. "I'm betting you don't have too many blind spots about *any* kinds of witches anymore." 

"I try not to, son, but there's still a lot I'm ignorant about, as you know. I haven't had the time to devote myself to this entirely." 

And Porthos pulls back and studies him for a long moment — 

Treville raises his eyebrows — 

"Nah, I answered my own question. You'd never give up soldiering for the life of a full-time witch." 

"Well... probably not, no," Treville says, and grins. "I've thought about trying to find ways to combine the two." 

"Yeah?" 

"Oh, yes. Some of the allies I've made over the years while doing everything I could to *find* you and Amina... well. You meet some interesting people. I'll show you." 

Porthos grins back. "Yes, Daddy." 

Treville strokes Porthos's cheek, and chin...

Rubs at the fuzzy hair and wonders how much of a beard he'll grow... 

And Porthos fills Treville's mind with an image of himself with a belly-length beard like *Kitos*. 

Treville *coughs*. 

"No? I already *know* it *is* one of the things you like about him." 

"And just about every lad wants a magnificent beard of his own once those first few hairs start coming in, it's true." 

"'Just about'? You didn't?" 

Treville rubs at that fuzz a little bit more and smiles wryly. "My beard is *exactly* like my father's. *Exactly* like it." 

"Uh." 

"It always has been." 

"Yes, but —" 

"*Your* beard should be just as you like it, son. Including nonexistent." 

"Right, all right, but what was your father like?" 

"Kind. Warm. Giant. Brilliant. Strong. Loving. I..." Treville shakes his head. "It's hard. I loved him more than anyone or anything else for a very long time." 

Porthos nods and stares at him with wide eyes. 

"He's the one..." Treville smiles ruefully. "He *won* nobility for our family, son." 

"Oh. Uh. Really?" 

"Yes. He was a common soldier coming up, rising through the ranks, hating the gentry, the Spanish, the Brits... but he was just too good at what he did. Too good a strategist. Too good a *general*," Treville says, and remembers... 

"You're thinking... you used to go out with him? When he was soldiering?" 

"On campaign, son. I was too young for it, really, and there were objections — both at home and otherwise — but he had already earned the name Treville, and I wanted it, and I was competent — at following his orders. When to stay put; when to go there, or there; when to follow the orders of this lieutenant or that one because he was too busy — and he often was —"

"Oh — I'm sorry —" 

"No, son, don't think about it like that. I loved his lieutenants, and they loved him — and me. They taught me all the lessons my father didn't get the chance to teach me, and toted me about like just another vital piece of military equipment." 

Porthos blinks — and grins. "You loved that." 

"Like nothing else — except for those times when I *could* be with my father. Sitting around a fire with him and his closest lieutenants, tucked between his legs as they all discussed strategy, or women, or the evils of the French Court..." Treville sighs. "And then the other men would start up singing, and my father and his lieutenants would join right in, and I could *feel* my father's voice against my back — 

"The thrum of it..." 

Treville swallows. "And then, of course, it was time for me to enlist." 

"And that *was* an of course," Porthos says, and it's not quite a question. 

"It was expected for my father to try to advance our family further, to make me a courtier so I could eventually carve out more lands and titles for us — out of the backs of other courtiers." 

Porthos makes a face. 

Treville grins. "Exactly, son. It was *expected* for *me* to do that to whatever son I got on whatever noblewoman would have me —" 

"But —" 

"*Or* whatever son I *adopted*..." 

"I — oh. Uh. Go on." 

Treville winks. "I haven't done that. And I won't. *Unless*, somehow, you come to want it. My father did his duty — he taught me quite a bit about *how* to move through the halls of power. I'm not ignorant of it. I just don't *like* it." 

"I wouldn't, either!" 

"You're *going* to meet your Aunt Marie-Angelique, for whom all this is as natural as breathing —" 

"Oh. And she's... she's kind?" 

Treville grins. "She's wonderful, son. Brilliant, tough as any soldier you can name, warm, giving, witty, *wise*... she's not always *kind*, but she *will* always be kind to *you* and *yours*. It's the people who are unkind who meet the dragon in her." 

"Well, that's all right, then — better than —" 

"I thought you'd say that. But you need to see her side of things, more than just to know her as your family. You —" 

"Have to see what it's like to *like* being a courtier?" 

"Exactly that, son. And their other son, Thomas, is going that route, too —" 

"And *he's* a good bloke?" 

"Oh, he's an odd one, son. Talkative, cheerful, warm, affectionate with his family, a little bit of a dandy despite being *thirteen*, a *scholar* like both of his parents, liable to bounce around to countless topics in one conversation, a *performer* — plays the harpsichord pretty well for a boy his age *and* likes putting on bits of plays for the family and whoever's visiting —" 

"Does he bloody *sleep*?" 

Treville laughs hard. "I've wondered the same thing. But Laurent assures me that Olivier looks in on him sleeping every night." 

"He's probably making sure he's staying put!" 

Treville snickers — 

And Porthos grins. "I like *your* laughs, too, Daddy." 

"Do you, now." 

"Yeah, and I — I want to know more about everything, about the whole — family —" 

"I'll tell you —" 

"But I don't want to make you wait." 

Oh. 

"Yeah," Porthos says, and jerks his chin at Treville. "I don't want to make my *Daddy* wait." 

"Son... son, you're not —" 

"Don't try to be good right now, Daddy. You know I can feel you doing it." 

And that — Treville raises an eyebrow. "You know I can feel you *appreciating* me trying to be good, son." 

And that makes Porthos pause. 

Lick his lips. 

Flush — "Yeah. I do appreciate it. Because I haven't always had it easy with sex —" 

Treville growls — 

"— and there are parts of me that need *reassurance* sometimes —" 

"I'll *give* it to you —" 

"You already did," Porthos says, and *looks* at him. 

Into him — 

He's practically *daring* him — 

(Not 'practically', Daddy.) 

And. "Your mouth isn't busy, son." 

(It could be.) 

Treville's cock jerks *hard* — 

*Against* Porthos's — 

Porthos *pants* — and licks his lips. 

"Is that what you want, son? My cock in your mouth?" 

Porthos licks his lips again — 

Again — 

"Wanted to lick it when I was the dog, Daddy. Wanted to lick it all *over* — and your bollocks, too —" 

"Right where I was sweatiest, son?"

"Yeah —" 

"You know I don't taste like other men...." 

"Oh... shit, that's hot — please, let me suck you —" 

"Do you want to be on your knees, son? Do you want to... get right down and *stay* down for me?" 

"Uhh..." 

"That's too hard a question right now. All right. We'll revisit it later. For now..." And Treville moves to sit back against the headboard with his legs spread, beckoning —

"Fuck — yes —" 

"Show me what you can do, son. Show me —" And then Treville is *snarling*, because Porthos just swallowed his cock right down — 

Porthos *is* kissing his knot — 

*Sucking* kisses to his knot — 

Hard and sweet and — just a little shocking every time, just a little —

Treville growls and pushes his hands into Porthos's hair again, holds it tight and pulls him *back* — 

Porthos slurs 'no' — 

*Fights* him — 

*Whines* — 

"Shh, son, shh, I'll give it right back to you. I have to show you what I *like*... and then you can show *me* more." 

Porthos *groans* around the head of Treville's cock — 

Nods and laps — 

*Suckles* and nods — 

Treville pants — "Oh, that's good, son, that's —" He growls. "Do that for just a little longer..." 

(But I can tell it's not what you like the *best*,) Porthos says, suckling and nuzzling, lapping and *slurping* — 

Treville shudders — 

Pants — 

Twitches and *hungers* —

(Oh. You like it *this* way.) 

Son — 

(You like it — when I do it...) 

When you — when you *enjoy* me — 

Porthos moans and pulls back enough to rub his *face* on the head of Treville's twitching, *jerking* cock — 

He grips Treville by the *knot* — 

Treville *barks* and tightens his grip on Porthos's hair — "Careful —" 

(Yes, Daddy —) 

"Rub — rub your fuzzy *chin* —" 

(*Yes*, Daddy!) And Porthos does it right away, loosening his grip on Treville's knot just enough and *working* his chin against Treville's cock — 

Treville *croons* — 

(Oh, Daddy...) 

"Do you. Do you *like* it." 

(You've got my face all sticky...) 

"Do you —" 

(You've got my face all *marked* —) 

"*HNH* —" 

(I'm your boy now...) 

YOU'VE ALWAYS BEEN MY BOY!

And Porthos groans, *sucks* the head of Treville's cock, *shakes* — 

*Say* it!

(I've always been your boy, Daddy! I've — we've got to make up for lost *time* —) 

Treville growls and growls — I'm going to fill you now, son — 

(*Fuck* —) 

I'm going to fuck your. Your tight little *throat* — 

(Yeah, Daddy, *yeah* —) 

*Breathe*. 

Porthos obeys immediately — but doesn't stop sucking. Doesn't — 

Oh, son... 

(I don't *have* to —) 

I want you to. I want you to stop. 

(Oh. Oh, you want to *last*...) 

That's right, son. I want to *have* you for. For just a little while...

(*Fuck* —) And Porthos stops sucking and pants, croons — 

Treville's cock jerks and jerks and — 

And he won't last very long no matter *what* — 

(Neither will I!) 

Treville *growls* — *Don't* touch yourself — 

(Daddy —) 

Don't do it. Don't spend. Save it for me. Save it for your Daddy. 

(Oh, fuck, Daddy, *fuck* —) 

*On*, Treville says, and pulls Porthos down and down and — 

And Porthos *thrusts* against the bed once — 

Twice — 

Holds himself *up* and *shakes* — 

*Suck*, son. 

Porthos drops and sucks and — sucks *hard*, and they both know he's distracting himself from his *need* to thrust with Treville's cock, that he's going to give his *all* — 

Oh, son... 

(Daddy, Daddy, please make me *work* for it —) 

Treville grunts and snarls and lifts Porthos off halfway — 

He sucks *harder* — 

Treville thrusts *in* as he pulls Porthos down — 

Porthos *gulps*— 

Treville groans and spasms and *grinds* — 

Porthos groans in his chest and *shakes* — 

And Treville lifts him off again — 

Thrusts in and *pulls* — 

Porthos's sob is *choked* — 

His eyes are rolled back in his head — 

He's *trembling* — 

They're both *slick* with sweat and Treville is leaking *copiously*, leaking and needing to fuck hard, *hard* — 

(Please, Daddy, *please*!) 

He thrusts again — 

(Yeah —) 

Again — 

(Oh, *God*, yeah —) 

He thrusts *hard* — 

Porthos gulps and drools and *massages* Treville's knot, and — 

"*Son*!" 

(Do it! Please do it!) 

And Treville can't think, can't think and can't breathe in anything but his son, his beautiful — 

He's pumping *up* and *up* — 

Porthos is sucking so hard — 

Treville is *working* Porthos on his cock, down and up and down again, so fast, so — 

(Good, it's good, it — Daddy, 'm so hard, so *hard* —) 

I'll make it so good for you, son, I'll make you spend yourself *mindless* — 

(I *know* you will!) 

And Treville is snarling again, losing himself to the scents of his boy's eagerness, the scents of his lust and need and hunger — 

The *feel* of him — 

His rough fingers on Treville's knot and his soft lips, his soft tongue, his *tight* throat — 

All of him, all of him — 

He wants — 

(You want to *fuck* me —) 

I — 

(You *can*, Daddy, you —) 

And Treville is bucking, grunting, fucking his son so — so bloody *hard* — 

He's gripping Porthos tight — 

Holding him *still* and *taking* — 

He knows Porthos can't get a *breath* — 

He can't let his son get a *breath* — 

(Don't stop, Daddy!) 

He *won't* — 

Porthos *jerks* — 

Don't *spend* — 

(No, Daddy, I won't, I *won't* —) 

Good — good *boy*, Treville says, and shoves in, shoves *in*, takes his boy, *has* his boy, and his mouth is so plush, his scents are so high in Treville's nose, he — 

He *pumps* Treville's knot — 

Treville *howls* as his vision *blanks* — 

He knows — 

He knows he's *clutching* Porthos — 

He has to hold him, keep him, never let him go — 

He has to — 

And Porthos pumps him again, again — 

And Treville can see everything in flashes, see Porthos's curls lank around his clutching fingers — 

See Porthos's lips *stretched* around his cock — 

See Porthos's eyes rolled *back* — 

See himself thrusting in-in-*in* — 

Porthos squeezes *hard* — 

And Treville *growls* as everything burns inside him, as everything lights up wild and bright and he spurts, as he fills his beautiful boy's throat — 

And mouth — 

And throat again — 

Again — 

(Please — please, my mouth!) 

Treville snarls and pulls back — 

Porthos sucks *viciously* hard —

Treville shouts and spills, just spills, fills his boy's *mouth* — 

(*Yes*, Daddy, *yes* —) 

Do you. Do you like the *taste*. 

And Porthos is moaning, slurping, licking frantically — 

Porthos is sucking him up like — like — 

(You're so... animal...) 

Oh, son...

(I *need* it!) 

Treville grunts as his cock shocks him with one last spurt — 

(Oh — oh, yeah — ) 

Take all of me, son... 

(Yeah, Daddy —) 

And Treville slumps against the headboard and pets Porthos, pets him and caresses him — 

Tugs the tangles out of his hair as he keeps licking and *suckling* — 

It *hurts* — both of them, by the look of those tremors in Porthos's beautiful, strong body. 

(I just. I just need you —) 

Treville tugs Porthos off — 

"Mm —" 

"Come on, turn over and scoot up the bed." 

"Fuck — fuck, *Daddy* —" 

"You can do it, son. Let your Daddy take care of you." 

Porthos moans and obeys immediately, situating himself more or less the right way on the bed... 

And his cock is just a little doggier than it was earlier. 

Completely unsurprising. 

"Spread your legs, son. *Nice* and wide." 

"Oh, Daddy..." And Porthos swallows and does it. 

"Now I didn't bring the *special* saddlebag with me — the one that goes with Kitos, Reynard, and me every time we ride out together and always has dice, cards, wine, oil, pomade, et cetera — but." And he raises an eyebrow. 

"I just — if you're just fingering me, I only need a little slick!" 

Treville licks his lips. "That's what I hoped you'd say, son," he says, licking his fingers so he won't chafe that tender cock too badly and stroking up a *lot* of slick — 

"Oh shit — oh *shit* —" 

Stroking just a little more... "You like your Daddy's hand..." 

"I love it! Just — just that would be enough!" 

"Not for me." 

"Oh, fuck, do what you *want*!" 

"All the time, son?" And Treville doesn't squeeze, but he does stroke *faster* —

And Porthos nods and *sweats* for him, panting and licking his lips — 

"And if I want to *please* you, son?" 

Porthos groans and spreads his legs *wider* — 

Treville growls and *stops* stroking, resisting the urge to *shove* his messy hand in his own mouth, and uses his dry hand to push Porthos's right thigh back toward his chest a little — 

"God — God, Daddy —" 

"Your little hole is gorgeous, son..." 

"Please *fuck* it!" 

Treville licks his lips, and promises himself some long and heartfelt time fucking that hole with his *tongue* — 

"*Fuck* —" 

"Everything, son. *Everything*," Treville says, and rubs the rim of Porthos's hole with his slick-sticky fingers, getting it just a little ready — 

"Yeah — *yeah* — please don't tease —" 

"Not this time...?" 

"*That* — *please*!" 

"Anything you say, son," Treville says, and pushes in with two, nice and slow and steady and hard — 

"*Fuck*! Oh, fuck, oh, *fuck*, Daddy, you're so good, you're so — oh —" 

Treville *crooks* — 

"UNGH —" 

"You're going to spend for me, son..." 

"Yeah! Please please — Daddy —" 

Treville crooks again — 

"*Shit* — fuck — oh, fuck —" 

"You're going to spend *hard*," Treville says, and starts to thrust, just a little more carefully than he would if he had pomade or oil — 

"You can — you *can* —" 

"My fingers are thicker, harder, and rougher than most of what you've had, son. *Take* it." 

"Fuck fuck fuck —" And Porthos bangs his head back against the bed — 

Pants and *sweats* — 

Treville *crooks* — 

Porthos *howls* again — and loosens up just a little. 

"*Good* boy. Have a treat," he says, and speeds his thrusts — 

"NUH — unh — *unh* —" 

"You like that, son?" 

"*Daddy* —" 

"You like it when your Daddy fucks you?" 

Porthos *bucks* — 

*Strains* like he's tied *down* — 

And Treville has to fight to keep from reaming him, to keep from — 

Not yet, not yet — 

He crooks again, and he leans in — 

Licks his boy's delicious cock — 

"Daddy!" 

Swallows him *whole* — 

Porthos whines and shakes and goes *rigid* — and they both know he's trying to keep himself from spending. 

Treville grins around his mouthful and fucks him just a *little* faster — 

"Nnh — I —" Porthos whimpers and whines like a pup — 

Shakes and *bucks* again — 

"Daddy, please, Daddy, *please* —" 

Almost, son, Treville says — 

"Yeah — I — anything —" 

Anything for me? 

"Please!" 

Anything I say?

"*Please*!" 

Treville sucks hard — 

"*Fuck* —" 

Kisses the tender swelling that will *become* Porthos's knot — 

"Oh — please please —" 

And then reams *himself* on that beautiful, thick cock — 

Porthos *shouts* — 

*Almost*, son — 

"*Daddy*!" 

And Treville curls his fingers upward just a little and fucks his boy that way, *drags* against that pleasure-button every *time* — 

Porthos *screams* — 

*Now*, son. Spend *now*!

And Porthos chokes on his scream and bucks — 

And bucks — 

And *howls* as he *fucks* Treville's face, as he fucks himself down Treville's throat and back onto his fingers and spurts and spurts and *spurts*. 

Good *boy*!

(*Daddy* — *I* —) 

Keep *spending*!

Porthos arches and *obeys*, spurting musky and thick, clenching so *tight*, so hot, so *sweet* — 

His *boy* — 

Treville slurps it *all* down — 

Laps and sucks and suckles and *cherishes* — 

He'll never let his boy *go* — 

And Porthos *jerks* in his mouth and spills just a little bit more before collapsing on his back on the bed. 

He's shaking. 

He's crooning. 

He's rumbling *between* croons. 

He's *loose* — 

And Treville still doesn't have any oil. 

He tells his cock to shut right the hell up and pulls out, slow and steady. 

He moves to one of the basins to wash up a little — and Porthos laughs, breathless and still crooning and rumbling. 

Treville smiles. "Yes, son?" 

"That. That'll teach you to travel *unprepared*, Daddy." 

"I was traveling with my *familiar* — or so I thought." 

"And I say a-bloody-gain: you were hot for me when I *was* a dog." 

Well... that's true. "I never would have pressured you, though." 

Porthos snorts. 

"What —" 

"Did you think I would've put up a *fight*?" 

"Son, *most* dogs don't take kindly to the thought of being buggered by humans. Or human-shaped people." 

"But you're a bloody *dog* —" 

"Sometimes." 

"*All* the time — and. Wait, no, you couldn't feel me. You didn't *know* how much I... accepted you." 

"Yes," Treville says, smiling ruefully and rinsing the linen. 

Porthos sighs. "Such a waste. Right, lemme get clean —" 

"Absolutely not." 

"But —" 

"You can — and should — get *naked* —" 

"Daddy —" 

"— while I put in my order for some clothes for you —" 

"But I —" 

"I need your scents, son. All of your scents, when we've just made love," Treville says, looking into Porthos's eyes and flaring his nostrils. 

Porthos shivers. "And. You can't wait to order those clothes?" 

"We have to ride as soon as possible after dawn tomorrow, son — especially since I can't just buy you a horse." 

"Yeah, I — no. Not much riding in the Court. I really like running with Éventreur, though. It's kind of soothing?" 

Treville blinks and starts to dress. "Yes?" 

"Yeah. You get into a rhythm, you know? And there's the wind, and the sound of his hooves on the ground, and the sound of whatever you're talking about — and you never stop talking, and that's bloody great — and I feel all my muscles just... soaking it all up." 

Treville nods thoughtfully. "I'm going to have to try that sometime." 

"Yeah, do! We can both run with your brothers or something." 

"*Kitos* will talk the moon down." 

"Not that Reynard? He seems like more of the type." 

"They both will, really, but Kitos will tell more stories," Treville says, and laces up his shirt. "You'll see." 

"Yes, Daddy. I..." 

"Mm?"

"You're a cuddler?"

Treville grins. "I had to be taught the art of it — *by* Kitos and Reynard —" 

"Not my mum?" 

"I mostly had it down by the time we met. Mostly. She said I still clutched her too much sometimes." 

"Too *much*?" 

Treville grins wider and reflexively checks his belts — perfect. "She always slept better when I held her harder." 

"That's what I *thought*." 

"She held you *tight* when you slept together." 

"Oh, yeah. We had, you know, a pile of blankets on the floor, and we would snuggle in, and it always seemed like there was space for at least five more people by the time she had her grip on me settled." 

Treville's heart hurts — but he still can't help but smile. "There was always room for at least five more people in whatever bed we were in. We — well, except for that bed in her rooms by the teahouse. There was barely room for *her* in that bed. We made it work, but my arse would always be dangling over the edge." 

"You're not a big man!" 

"It was a *tiny* bed, son. And you were a *big* baby." 

"I — right." Porthos snorts and grins. "I like it. My friends — *they* don't always like it when I put the lock on them, but, you know, I. I always like it." 

Treville licks his lips and studies him — "You'll always have it from me." 

Porthos blushes. "Yes, Daddy. I um. I'll just... get ready for bed... more." 

"Save your clothes. Ife will want to study them for magical residue." 

"Oh — yeah?" 

"Mm. She has a *good* nose for that," Treville says, patting himself down and trying to tell himself that everyone in this inn isn't going to spend the rest of their lives assuming all Musketeers fuck their dogs. 

Porthos snickers —

And Treville grins. "We've all heard worse." 

"Oh, *have* you?" 

"So will you, one day, son." 

And Porthos gives him a wide-eyed and *sweet* look — 

So Treville sweeps his hat onto his head solely so that he can tip it — 

"*Daddy* —" 

And then he sweeps it back off and grins. "I'll be right back." 

Porthos grins right back at him as he stands and works off the rest of his rags. "I'll be right here."


	5. He likes the leather ball, too.

The Duc turns out to be the sort of man who loathes cities, city people, city attitudes, city *everything bloody else* — 

So showing up dusty, without pomp, and *with* a great bloody dog really was a good plan. 

Remembering to call Porthos Prince is difficult, but *important*, and Treville can manage it well enough — especially once he starts playing with the Duc's own hunting hounds, who travel with him everywhere, including to his study to compose missives to the Queen-Regent. 

When the Duc sees Treville *talking* to Porthos and the other dogs... he insists on being called Théodore. 

And that...

Théodore's manor has, Treville must admit, a very soothing combination of scents. 

Treville plays with the dogs while Théodore growls and curses and writes and obviously resents not being able to join them. 

When the man has to start over, his growl is deep and flat enough to make Treville's ears twitch a little — but there's no real magic to the man. 

Perhaps in his family, though. He'll do a little research. 

Finally, the letter is done and they can *both* play with the dogs until the mandatory dinner is ready — 

And it wouldn't do to offend a Duc — 

Dinner involves an incredibly satisfying amount of recently-hunted meat and fourteen dogs running around the table at all times — 

Extensive discussion of how wonderful dogs are — 

Intriguingly *subtle* conversation about what the King's Musketeers as a whole might need in the absence of Henri —

And then it's time to ride, tempting offer of a hunt or no. 

The Queen-Regent must not be kept waiting. 

Still, it's rare enough that Treville gets to meet people in his nominal class that he *likes*. He's going to thank Laurent for this mission *profusely* — especially since the man had absolutely found the time to research the Duc sometime before this point and had absolutely *hoped* for a chance to introduce him to Treville. 

He promises to return to Théodore's lands when he can and sets off, and, once they're out of earshot of everyone, including the dogs — 

(What's hunting like?) 

Treville blinks — 

*Looks* at his son — 

Porthos looks back at him curiously from behind Prince's eyes — 

And Treville knows what he's going to be talking about for at least the first part of the ride.


	6. I'll meet you there.

By the time they get back to the garrison, it's late enough in the day that the sun is going down, but Kitos and Reynard are still lingering around the parade ground — waiting for them. They knew when he was due. 

Treville grins and points up to Laurent's office. 

They nod and grin back, but still come to help with Éventreur — and play with 'Prince', who gives Treville a rueful look, but still soaks it right up. 

He really is *more* all-of-a-piece with his dog than Treville could ever be. 

The stableboys bring them stew that Cook had been keeping on the hearth for them, and Treville gives up on telling his tale in anything like a timely fashion. 

Porthos is making *wonderfully* disgusting noises down there, and Treville now *knows* why it's warming. 

His son is home. 

Though there is some question of how he eats when he's in human-form...

Porthos ignores him serenely, muzzle deep in his bowl. 

Treville follows his example while Kitos and Reynard chat with the stableboys who are caring for Éventreur. 

When they're done, they are most assuredly *not* allowed to take their bowls back to the kitchen themselves — 

"You have a report to make, meneur!" 

"That's *right*. We can't have you shirking," Kitos says, and beetles his brows at him. 

And that — 

Treville smiles and moves close to Kitos, reaching up to grip him by the beard and pull him down so he can kiss his cheeks and his mouth— 

"Mm — Fearless —" 

And then he moves to give the same to Reynard, beautiful Reynard, who is giving him a *suspicious* look — 

"I'll tell you all everything upstairs," Treville says. "I just... needed to be close to both of you just then —" 

Kitos grunts — 

Reynard *blinks* — 

And then he's being *hustled* to Laurent's office, up the stairs and down the walk — 

Porthos is trotting behind and laughing *uproariously* in Treville's mind — 

"— and *furthermore*, meneur, if you leave out *any* detail, I will make you *hurt*." 

"And I won't bloody stop him!"

"I —" 

"Ah," Laurent says, opening the door and smiling at all of them. "I see our prodigal has arrived back home where he belongs. Come in, all of you." 

Kitos and Reynard hustle him inside. 

"Was he recalcitrant, brothers?" 

"*Non*. He was *kind* and *warm* and *loving*," Reynard says, and seems unsure as to whether or not he wants to *restrain* Treville — 

Porthos is almost *coughing* laughter as he dances on his *feet* — 

"I thought he was going to bloody *hug* us!" 

And Laurent blinks. 

And looks at Treville. 

Treville smiles ruefully and tips his hat. 

Laurent looks at *Porthos* — 

Narrows his *eyes* — 

Porthos yips, stops dancing, and sits on his haunches. And looks to *him*. 

"It's time, son." 

"Son —" 

"Meneur, what —" 

"Oh, *shit* —" 

"Right, now I'm glad you insisted on the clothes," Porthos says, standing up out of his crouch and giving himself a shake. 

"I thought you might be, son —" 

"You keep calling him —" 

"He looks just like bloody *Amina* —" 

"Oh." 

"*Oh* — *meneur*, *explain*!" 

"Yes, do," Laurent says, and he's standing, as well.

Treville grins at his son — 

And Porthos smiles ruefully back. "I think it's time for you to be helpful, Daddy." 

"*Shit* —" 

"I think I can do that," he says, and pulls Porthos in enough that he can bury his nose in his hair for just a moment. That done, he turns back to his brothers — "Lads, meet your nephew. Porthos, meet your Uncles." 

"*Meneur* —" 

"More helpful than that, Daddy." 

Treville grins... like an arsehole, really. 

"Well, that's more like the man we know and love right there," Kitos says. 

"And often want to flog, yes," Laurent says. "But...?" 

Treville laughs — 

And Porthos punches him in the side. It's a damned good punch — 

"*Thank* you, Daddy, now *explain* things!" 

"All right, all right. I was explaining things to 'Prince' the other night — telling him about why I was such a mess and why, especially, I had such a hard time giving myself to the brothers *he* knew I loved with all of myself —" 

"Bloody *hell*, Fearless —" 

"Telling him about my *sister*. My *love*. My *wife*," Treville says, and looks to all of them — 

"Oh... meneur, you have never let us —" 

"You've never bloody *admitted* that she was your wife —" 

"Not aloud. I couldn't. It was too much. But, for *some* reason, I could say it all to 'Prince'. He insisted on it, but it also... just came out. Better and more easily than before," Treville says — 

And Porthos hugs him — 

And Treville squeezes his shoulders. "But 'Prince' was growing more and more agitated the more I kept talking, and eventually — when I finally said Amina's and Porthos's *names* —" 

"I was able to change *back*," Porthos says, and gives Treville a hard squeeze before standing straight and looking to the others. "See, I'd been *stuck* in dog-form. For over a bloody *year*." 

"*Merde*. But — where *were* you? For *all* of this time?" 

"In the Court of Miracles. That's where I came up, and you're all wincing, and yeah, those winces are deserved," Porthos says, and laughs ruefully. "Daddy says when he tried to track us there as the dog, all the scent-trails dissipated to nothing, and that there wasn't even a *way* to track us in human-form." 

Kitos looks pained. "We tried countless times, lad. We couldn't get *in*." 

"Your father, he spent more time at this, and perfected many disguises, but still he only had limited success," Reynard says. 

Porthos blinks and looks back at *him* — 

And Treville smiles ruefully. "Laurent gave me a *long* leash." 

"I always will, brother. But... forgive me —" 

"You're wondering how I can be certain?" Treville smiles wryly. 

Laurent winces — and turns to Porthos. "You mustn't believe I doubt or disrespect you personally. But this... this is a matter which has consumed us all for a decade and a half." 

Porthos nods. "I know, sir, and it's important that you all feel sure about me." 

"How did *you* come to be certain about Treville?" 

"It was... well, like I told him, it wasn't *immediately* obvious that he was talking about my mum when he started talking about his sister, but once I asked him to *describe* her? *Everything* he said after that was just another piece of the puzzle. And then, well, he said my *name*. There aren't very many Aminas *or* Porthoses out there." 

Laurent nods thoughtfully and turns to Treville. 

"I felt him. As soon as he changed back. Everything that was *missing* when I was wondering whether he was my familiar — and so much more. Everything. But before then..." And Treville closes his eyes and smiles, sinking deep into *that* feeling — and sharing it with his brothers. 

"Oh — fuck —" 

"Meneur, what is this — this —" 

Laurent makes a guttural noise. "You felt this *before* he changed back and you *didn't* know he was your son?" 

Treville laughs quietly and opens his eyes again. "I *thought* you'd know. I thought you'd understand. I... all I could think was that I *hadn't* felt anything like that since I'd had my Amina-love and Porthos with me, and that I'd give anything to keep it *forever*. Part of me was afraid of... jostling the feeling too much, if that makes sense." 

Laurent inhales with a shudder — and nods. And then turns to Porthos. "And you, Porthos? Did what you felt when you were near to Treville change once you did?" 

"No, sir. He *always* made me feel just that good. Just that *right*. See, when I was a dog the first time, I would get confused a lot of the time about whether I was just a dog, or whether I was a boy who was a dog *sometimes*, but I was *never* confused about where I needed to be, and that was at Daddy's side." 

"You knew you were searching for your father, lad?" 

"No, Kitos — uh. Wait. What should I call you?" 

Kitos smiles ruefully — and then *all* of his brothers share a look that Treville understands immediately. 

Treville cups Porthos's shoulder. "While we're at the garrison, in public, you should be calling *all* of us 'sir'." 

"Right, all right —" 

"But since we're *not* in public now," Laurent says, and raises an eyebrow — 

Porthos blinks — 

And Reynard smiles wryly and moves close to Porthos, cupping his face and kissing his cheeks and mouth. 

"*Mm* —" 

"We are your *Uncles*. We have *been* your Uncles since the moment you were *conceived*." 

Kitos booms a laugh. "We were your uncles before Fearless was your *father*, lad." 

"I. Uh. Hunh." 

Treville grins. "They're absolutely right about that... though I'd still planned to *ask* my Amina-love to let me adopt you." 

"Before you were even lovers? But — you did say —" 

And Kitos laughs harder. "Lad, your father wanted to marry your mother before he knew what the word marriage *meant*."

"This is so," Reynard says, and wraps an arm around Porthos's shoulders, pulling him close. "Kitos and I discussed this often, as your father deserted us for your mother's side more and more and more." 

"We *discussed* it on the very first night!" 

"Ah, oui! We thought, at first, our grumpy meneur had made a friend —" 

"But then we realized that that was *completely* improbable," Kitos says — 

Porthos snorts and *coughs* — 

And Reynard kisses Porthos's temple. "We realized he had made a *sister*." 

"Out of the woman we were trying to make time with, yet!" 

"You were all attracted to her?" 

"Your mother," Laurent says with a smile, "was a very beautiful woman." 

"Yes, but were *you* trying to make time with her — Uncle Laurent?"

And Laurent looks at Porthos with shining eyes, devouring eyes — "I've missed you."

Porthos blinks — "I —" 

And Laurent smiles wryly. "And I never had the opportunity to share with her Marie-Angelique's and my desires for all of us to... well." 

Kitos *chokes* — "*Laurent*!" 

"Hm?"

Reynard makes a complex gesture with the hand he doesn't have on Porthos's shoulder. "There may be such a thing as too honest?" 

"No," Porthos says. "There isn't. I never want my Daddy to lie to me, or hide anything from me, and I never want any of you to do that, either. Please." 

"But —" 

"Please, Uncle Kitos," Porthos says — and snorts again. "Besides, I could see everything in *Daddy's* head from the time we *met*. You're *not* going to shock me." 

Kitos and Reynard look horrified — 

Laurent looks *thoughtful* — 

And Treville sighs happily. "He might shock you, though." 

Reynard blinks — "How is that?"

(Daddy...?) 

We share everything, son. Everything, Treville says, and doesn't put up *any* privacy-walls. 

"What else is there to share?" And Reynard looks back and forth between them — 

"Yeah, Fearless, you promised not to hold out on us!" 

And Treville shares the *feel* of his desire for Porthos, his need for him, his lust and love and all-encompassing *hunger*. 

"*Shit* — *Fearless* —" 

"Meneur, you must *never* —" 

Laurent's breathing is *ragged* —

And he hadn't meant for this to happen, but Porthos *clumsily* shares his own desperate need for Treville, his own love and hunger, everything — everything bright and wild and *sweet* — 

It's so strong — 

He doesn't know *how* to make it lighter for the others — 

"I don't bloody think I should!" 

Treville tones it down *for* him.— 

"Daddy —" 

"If Yejide *didn't* teach you not to *bludgeon* people with your magic, then she should have, son." 

"I — fuck — I'm sorry, I'm sorry, everyone, I just don't want you to get the wrong *idea*," Porthos says, stepping away from Reynard and looking at all of them. 

They're all — stunned. 

Reynard is blinking — 

Kitos is standing slack-jawed —

And Laurent looks as though someone had shown him an entirely new way to *breathe*. 

Porthos winces — 

And Kitos clears his throat like a musket-crack and cups his shoulders. "Lad, it's all right, you didn't hurt us." 

"No, I — I still did the wrong thing —" 

"And you won't do it again, right?" 

"I won't!" 

Kitos hugs him — 

"Oof — uh —" 

"We..." Reynard licks his lips. "We must know, Porthos. *How* did you move from speaking about your mother to making love?" 

"Well, it helped that Daddy was *thinking* about making love to my mum. A *lot*." 

Reynard makes a strangled noise. 

Kitos sweats. 

And Laurent looks to *him* for a long and *hungry* moment before turning to Porthos. "You were privy to all of those thoughts." 

Porthos turns in Kitos's arms. "He *tried* to hide them from me, but, you know, I could tell that he was hot and I wanted to know what he was about. I *hate* secrets and lies." 

"They're entirely incorrect in a family," Laurent says — 

"That's *right*," Porthos says. "Anyway, then he was trying to *distract* me with thoughts about my mum, which is a good tack, but I *knew* he was trying to distract me. I knew he was thinking about me, way down deep. And. I was *already* thinking about him. I'd *been* thinking about him. Even when I still thought I was just a dog. He was the missing piece." 

Reynard clears his own throat. "I... and this does not bother you? He is your *father*." 

"Yeah, he *is*, and my mind keeps trying to take me away from it, keeps trying to make me *forget* he's my father, as opposed to *just* my Daddy, but I also can't forget, and don't want to, because it feels so bloody good. He... he knows how to take care of me — *grk* —" 

"You may wish to allow our nephew to breathe, Kitos," Laurent says. 

Kitos smiles sheepishly and eases his grip. Slightly. 

"I like the hugs," Porthos says, or possibly something else. He's muffled by Kitos's magnificent bulk. 

Kitos still looks overjoyed — 

Reynard is waiting impatiently for a chance at a hug himself, by the look of him — 

And Laurent is smiling at all of them, small and warm and pleased and — satisfied?

"Laurent?" 

"Yes, little brother?" 

"You're... pleased?" 

"How could I not be?" And now he looks *confused* — 

And Kitos is laughing hard, shaking Porthos while he does it — 

And Reynard is draping himself over *him*, and kissing his cheek. 

"Reynard —" 

"Meneur. Our Laurent was probably the least shocked of *all* of us." 

"I —" 

"He bloody *knows* you!" 

"So do you!" 

"We haven't made a — a natural-philosophical *study* of you over these last twenty-some *years*, meneur." 

"I assure you," Laurent says, raising an eyebrow and folding his hands behind his back."My notes alone are fascinating." 

"I."

Kitos *thunders* laughter — 

And Treville spends just a little time thinking about how far back those notes might go — 

How far — 

Laurent would *interrogate* him about his predilections and deviance from the time he was *fourteen* —

Porthos says *something* that sounds complimentary — and muffled — 

"Wait, wait, Laurent, does this mean you have notes on *all* of us?" And Reynard rests one palm over Treville's heart.

Laurent only smiles. Evilly. 

"That's just mean, brother." 

"Hmm. Perhaps," Laurent says, and knuckles his moustache to repress a laugh. "But have we settled the issues which needed to be settled, gentlemen?"

"Well, Porthos likes to cuddle — and we like that," Kitos says. 

"Notre meneur is a deviant above all other deviants — and we have always liked this," Reynard says. 

"You — are you all just going to..." But Treville can't finish the thought properly. 

Reynard gives him a *glittering* look — 

And Kitos is laughing hard again, shaking Porthos more. "What the bloody buggering fuck are we *supposed* to do, Fearless? *Not* accept the inevitable?" 

"I —" 

And Reynard *claws* Treville's chest just a little, right over his heart. "We are not fools, chéri." 

"No, we are not," Laurent says. "And — we *do* have a new recruit...?" And Laurent raises an eyebrow.

Porthos's affirmative is clear *enough*. 

Laurent grins like a boy. "We like that very much," he says, and pulls *two* bottles of brandy out of one of his drawers. 

Kitos finally releases Porthos — "Look at that, lad! We don't have to put it on the floor tonight!" 

Porthos snickers and gives himself a shake. "I don't really *mind*, but I'd like to get used to eating and drinking like a human again, too. So Daddy can stop making *comments* in his *mind*." 

Treville grins. "So long as you eat disgustingly for me *sometimes* —" 

"Daddy —" 

"And make those little smacking and slobbering noises —" 

"Daddy, I'm going to punch you again —" 

"As you hold the bowl in your big, beautiful paws —" 

"Daddy —" 

"Just a sec, lad," Kitos says, and whallops Treville a good one. "How's that?" 

Porthos grins. "*Thank* you, Uncle Kitos." 

"You're welcome," he says, and hands Porthos a tumbler of brandy. "Drink up. We're going to have to be nearly paralytic before we convince Laurent to go home without *working* more." 

"I can *do* that," Porthos says, and drinks — 

And *Treville* grins and takes his own tumbler. "My boy. My brothers." 

Reynard licks his ear. "Your *family*, chéri. Forever." 

Treville toasts them all, leans into Reynard's touch, and drinks. 

end.

**Author's Note:**

> Out beyond ideas of wrongdoing and rightdoing,  
> there is a field. I'll meet you there
> 
> When the soul lies down in that grass,  
> the world is too full to talk about.  
> Ideas, language, even the phrase _each other_  
>  doesn't make any sense 
> 
> \- Jalāl ad-Dīn Muhammad Rūmī


End file.
